


Epiphany

by faege



Series: Epiphany [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Christmas fic, Gen, Post-Season 5, powers!Sam, semi-Domestic Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faege/pseuds/faege
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The point is that legends are as good as myths--everyone has his own opinion, and not half of them are right. The point is that Sam Winchester returns from Hell three months after he jumped in, and there’s nothing that’s legend about that.</i>
</p><p>-or-</p><p>Sam returns from Hell with his body intact--and his powers, too. With Sam's abilities cleansed of Azazel's taint, Heaven decides that a Sam with powers is a soldier they want. But the angels aren't known for keeping the Winchesters' best interests at heart and Sam has enough on his plate when his newly-cleansed powers take a sinister turn. Fighting a battle between Heaven's wishes and a deadly force from within, Sam and Dean hunker down in a small town in Virginia and wait for something to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Any hunter worth the salt they carried knew the apocalypse was coming. Not all of them were religious folk, but even those that scoffed at God were familiar enough with His Word to recognize the signs: pestilence and plague, rumors of Horsemen, some sort of showdown with Lucifer--and the Winchesters tied up in the middle of it all.   
  
After the apocalypse came to a screeching halt, some said that Sam Winchester died in the crossfire and his brother had gone rogue. Those who were friendly with the Winchesters said that Sam fought Lucifer himself. Most said that Sam _was_ Lucifer, or as good as. Dean didn't feature in many of the tales, mostly because Dean disappeared as surely as Sam did. The only person who might have had any clue as to his whereabouts was Bobby Singer, and folk knew better than to ask him.  
  
The point is that legends are as good as myths--everyone has his own opinion, and not half of them are right.  
  
The point is that Sam Winchester returns from Hell three months after he jumped in, and there's nothing that's legend about that.  
  
-  
  
Dean is slumped at Bobby's kitchen table, nursing what would be the hangover to end all hangovers but for the fact that he had the same one yesterday and the day before that.  
  
The wind chimes on the porch are tinkling in the rising breeze, herald of the gray thunderheads blowing in. They drove Dean crazy for the first couple of months, but since then he's learned to tune them out. Bobby, on the other hand, is impossible to ignore. He was sympathetic in the weeks following Stull, watching Dean and the trail of empty bottles he left behind without a word. More recently, though, he's been pouring out the liquor Dean brings home and leaving Dean sprawled on the floor the nights he passes out.  
  
And mercilessly clattering around the kitchen in some misguided attempt to still care for Dean by feeding him.  
  
Dean cradles his head with ginger fingers as Bobby whisks pancake batter with a fork, doing his best to minimize the clanging in his skull. Bobby shoots him a knowing glance, and Dean figures if he's going to pretend he's all right, he might as well go all in.  
  
"Didn't know you cooked," he rasps.  
  
"Fed you and your brother more times than I can count," Bobby counters, wincing a little as he says the words. He pushes a plate of pancakes under Dean's nose and scoops more batter into the pan. "Eat up."  
  
"Never figured you for the pancake-making type, I mean," Dean says. He dumps a spoonful of brown sugar over the pancakes on his plate, knowing he won't make it through half of them. "Except for birthdays," he amends. "Special occasions. Whenever Sam asked." He puts down the spoon and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, choking on the sickly sweet smell of brown sugar. He laughs a little to himself and wonders if he can vomit at the same time. Bobby's looking at him, he knows, but he can't bring himself to look back. "Guess I forgot a few things."  
  
"There's a lot of things you forgot, kid," Bobby says quietly and anger stirs in Dean's stomach.  
  
"That mean you're going to give me back my car keys?"  
  
"That means if you drive home drunk one more time, the only thing you're going to get is a concussion the minute you open the door. Now shut up and eat. I've got a scrap yard to run."  
  
Bobby turns his back in stony silence, one that Dean's stubborn enough not to break, but he's quieter when he takes the pancakes off the stove. Dean closes his eyes and picks up his fork, figuring the best he can do to make peace is try to get through what's on his plate. He's surprised when Bobby nudges his arm with a mug.  
  
"Coffee," Bobby grunts.  
  
"Hair of the dog," Dean says, lurching up to fish the bottle of Jack Daniel's from the top of the fridge. When he sits back down, Bobby's watching him. "What," Dean says flatly.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Bobby turns away and Dean puts the bottle down with a thump, fits his head into his hands again and prays that the hangover passes before it starts to thunder.  
  
As if in answer, the chimes give a discordant jangle just before scattered raindrops hit the windows. Zeppelin noses his way through the screen door to snap at stray raindrops and bark at the dark clouds rolling in.  
  
"Ought to close that door before it starts coming down," Bobby says.  
  
Dean grunts, shifting in his chair, the smell of rain making the humidity more bearable. He can hear the Rottweiler pup run from one end of the deck to the other, panting and whining, probably trying to get at the wind chimes. Then there's a heavy thump, Zeppelin barking like the roof is coming down.  
  
"Hell if that dog got into the MREs again." Bobby tosses the spatula into the sink.  
  
"Thought somebody was going to pick them up," Dean says.  
  
"Somebody _was_ going to pick them up. Yesterday." Bobby jerks his head to the door as the barking increases. "See what it is, would you, and bring Zepp in the house. I'm going to call Martin, give him a piece of my mind."  
  
Dean gets to his feet and pushes open the screen door, expecting to see the dog nosing around the spilled box of rations.  
  
Instead he finds Sam.  
  
-  
  
Sam returns from Hell on a rainy day in August.  
  
He's spewed out in Stull Cemetery, clutching handfuls of wet grass and coughing air and rainwater into his lungs. He catches a glimpse of the rusted cemetery gates before his vision flashes white and he's sprawled out on Bobby's porch. There's barking and shouting and hands pulling at him. Then, nothing.  
  
He wakes in the middle of a devil's trap, tied to a chair with Dean forcing salt and holy water down his throat while Bobby recites an exorcism. When he manages to splutter out his brother's name, Dean leaves the room to vomit in the kitchen sink.  
  
All in all, it's an improvement.  
  
-  
  
The second time Sam wakes, it's at the tail end of a ritual involving knives, judging by the thin red lines on his arms and the row of bloodstained blades on the table. Consciousness is slow, but strong: already he can wade through the haze and piece things together in a logical order. Latin and Hebrew, silver and brass blades, chalk and herbs and smoke. An exorcism. Heavy-duty. Bobby was reading it and...Dean...  
  
Sam jerks in the chair and the sting of his arms is the extra jolt he needs to lift his aching head and focus. He opens his eyes, groaning Dean's name, and is surprised to feel Dean's hands skimming along his forearms, gripping his shoulders. "No," he says and swallows, voice no more than air. "No. What'd you do?"  
  
"It's just me, Sam. Hold on. Bobby, can we get him loose?"  
  
Bobby comes closer but keeps himself on the outside of the chalked markings on the floor. "Dean, hang on a second. We need to finish the ritual and then--"  
  
"We did enough, it's done."  
  
Dean's hands leave Sam's shoulders and Sam's head bobs, the colors of the room blurring. Something hard and cold presses against Sam's skin-- _brass_ , Sam thinks--and then the knife is slicing through the ropes on Sam's wrists and they slither to the floor. He wants to flex his arms, make a fist to get the blood flowing, but he can't. He wants to hold his head up, too, but even that's getting harder to do, the adrenaline fading from his system.  
  
"You did s'm'thing," he gets out through the grit coating his throat. "Something, a deal. You made a _deal_."  
  
"No, Sam, no. Just lay down here, come on." Dean's arm has crept behind Sam's back and he's slowly being moved, tilting and being caught, Dean's hand on his collarbone the only thing keeping him upright. "Bobby, damn it, are you going to help him or not?"  
  
Rough hands support Sam from the other side and the room spins. When he opens his eyes, he's on the couch, muddy boots elevated by a stack of pillows. Dean's face swims in front of him.  
  
"You with us?" he says and he sounds a little bit like he's underwater. Sam lifts a hand and it connects with Dean's sternum, slides to his arm, drops.  
  
"Dean," Sam says, coughing and tasting mud in the back of his throat. It's everywhere, chilly against his skin, caked on his forearms and legs like he crawled out of Hell instead of getting yanked out. Bargained out. "What'd you do?" he asks but the words slur together.  
  
"Listen, Sam, don't talk right now, okay?"  
  
"Dean," Sam repeats stubbornly and Dean's hand comes up to rest on his head, a warm counterpoint to the cold that seems to have made a home in Sam's chest.  
  
"I mean it, Sam, shut up," Dean says, hand tightening on his scalp briefly. "You're a mess, dude, you look like you rolled in a puddle." He uses the corner of his shirt to scrub at a line of crusted salt on Sam's chin. Sam lifts a hand to rub it away but Dean stops him. "Quit it. You're getting blood on your face. Just hold still."  
  
Mud. Blood. Salt. He's been reduced to the elements and it makes him laugh. Dean frowns and fits both hands to Sam's face.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Did," Sam says and the lines on Dean's face deepen.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Think I did," Sam croaks, "roll in a puddle."  
  
Dean's face is blank and then splits on a grin. "Yeah. You're gonna be okay."  
  
Sam's hand finds its way to Dean's shirt again and pulls until it's bunched in as tight a fist as he can make. His fingers are fumbling, weak with that trembly feeling from trying to hold a pencil after laughing too hard. But he's not laughing now. Not at all. "Dean." He shifts a little, trying to sit up, trying to get every word out clearly. "Tell me. What did you do?"  
  
Bobby comes in with a bucket of sudsy water and sets it and a stack of towels on the floor by the couch. "This won't get the half of it, but at least you'll be recognizable. Don't worry about the couch, damn thing is old and half the springs are gone."  
  
Dean nods his thanks, attention drawn back to Sam when Sam's hand tugs his shirt. "I didn't do anything, Sam, I swear. Ask Bobby, I've been here the whole time, there's no crossroads, no deal. Okay? You hear me?"  
  
Sam searches Dean's face and then breathes deep, tension sliding from his shoulders, eyes slipping shut. "Good. Good."  
  
"Okay. Think we're going to save washing your hair for when we're working with more than a bucket. Hey. Wake up." Dean flicks Sam's cheek until he opens his eyes. "Come on, stay with me for this. No one's going to accuse me of bathing my comatose brother without his consent."  
  
"Sponge bath," Sam mumbles. "Doesn't count."  
  
"Well, stay awake so I don't get all the fun. Hey, eyes open all the way, pal, no checking out on me now."  
  
Sam nods and tries to swallow. "Water?"  
  
"I think that can be arranged." Dean gets up for a second and comes back with a glass of water and a straw. "Careful. I'll hold it."  
  
In the end, Sam does fall asleep while Dean washes most of the mud off his face and arms. He wakes up when Dean unlaces his boots and stays awake long enough to get down a mug of soup. He watches, heavy-eyed, as Bobby and Dean put away the knives and the herbs, the smudge sticks and the rock salt, sweep away the dirt and scrub away the blood. He watches and he breathes and he smiles until it hurts.  
  
Dean sees him and says, "Don't go anywhere."  
  
So Sam doesn't.  
  
Dean says, "Promise me, Sam."  
  
So Sam does.  
  
-  
  
Between the two of them, they get Sam upstairs, Bobby helping with Sam's socks and overshirt, leaving Dean to get a wobbly Sam into a pair of sweatpants. It's the first night in a long time that Dean gets any rest, the first night in an even longer time that he goes to sleep without a few slugs of whiskey. He takes the liberty of checking Sam's pulse before he gets into his own bed and for the first time in months he doesn't dream.  
  
Waking up without a pounding headache and a tongue made of cotton is strange but not unwelcome. He can already smell Bobby frying bacon, probably making pancakes again, and Dean swallows and takes a breath before turning to look at the other bed. Sam is curled on his side, fists tucked under the pillow, making himself small in a way that he never did before. As if he can feel Dean's eyes on him, he shifts, eyelashes fluttering.  
  
Then shoots up, tangling with his sheets and falling to the floor with a yelp that would be funny if Dean couldn't hear the panic in it.  
  
"Hey, whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam." Dean jogs around his bed, falling into a half-crouch and raising his hands when Sam flinches. "It's just me, just Dean. We're at Bobby's," he says quietly, watching Sam take in the twin beds with their faded quilts, the nightstands topped by brass lamps, the piles of books stacked in the room's corners. "Sioux Falls. You showed up on Bobby's porch yesterday and we dragged you in, cleaned you up some. You remember that?" Sam nods a little. "Okay? Come on, let me help you up."  
  
Sam hesitantly fits his hand into Dean's and allows himself to be pulled to his feet where he sways slightly. "Dean?" he echoes and Dean smiles.  
  
"The one and only. You gonna be okay if I let go?" Sam nods again, looking more sure of himself, and Dean gives him a gentle pat on his back. "All right. Feel up to a shower?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam says.  
  
"You remember where it is?"  
  
Sam nods and opens the door, moving unerringly to the hall bathroom. Dean blows out a deep breath and then heads down the stairs and out to the Impala, rocks digging into his bare feet as he fumbles with the keys.  
  
When he jogs back up the stairs, he knocks on the bathroom door before opening it. "Sam, I got clothes from your duffel," he calls over the sound of running water. "I'm leaving them on the counter here." He waits for a second. "Dude, say something."  
  
"Something," Sam says, and an arm is thrust around the shower curtain to wave in Dean's general direction and drip water all over the floor.  
  
Dean snorts. "Don't take up all the hot water. Bitch."  
  
"Jerk."  
  
Dean closes the bathroom door and sits in the middle of the hallway and cries for the first time since May.  
  
-  
  
Sam sleeps pretty solidly for the next three days. Dean is on pins and needles for the first thirty-six hours, then collapses into an exhausted sort of numbness until Sam wakes up and says he's hungry. Over the rest of the week he plies Sam with food, graduating him from soup to sandwiches, and would insist on afternoon naps except Sam seems to end up on the couch more often than not anyway.  
  
Dean doesn't even realize he's hovering until Bobby sends him into town with a grocery list. He brings back steaks and baked potatoes and at dinner Zeppelin nudges Dean's leg with his nose, begging for a piece. Sam nods off long before the meal is over, and Dean gets a shoulder under Sam's arm, hauls him to his feet and up the stairs to the sound of Sam's muddled protests.  
  
"Sleep well," Dean whispers, grinning at the way Sam is out the instant his head hits the pillow.  
  
But Sam doesn't.  
  
Two hours later, Dean hears movement upstairs and heads up to find Sam coming out of the bathroom, claiming he had a weird dream. An hour after that, he goes up to check on Sam and Sam is already sitting up, running a hand over his face. Dean opens the door a little farther, letting the light from the hall penetrate the gloom. "You okay?"  
  
Sam huffs and pushes his hair out of his face. "Fine. What time s'it?"  
  
Dean checks his watch. "A little after nine."  
  
Sam ducks his head and takes a breath, then lies back down. "Close the door when you go out?"  
  
Bobby is at his desk, seemingly engrossed in the sheaf of papers spread out in front of him, but gives Dean a sharp look when he comes in. "How's he doing?"  
  
"Says he's fine, maybe having trouble sleeping. It's still pretty early but the poor guy was almost facedown in his potatoes."  
  
"Well, so long as you're not about to hit the hay, here." Bobby holds up a Sumerian cleansing ritual. "See what you make of this. If you need help," he points at a stack of books on the table, "there might be something in one of those."  
  
An hour and a half later, Dean's ready to call it quits. He's chewed his pen cap to shreds and Bobby looks like he's ready to throw his own book across the room. He rubs the grit from his eyes and gets up, stretching to get rid of the kinks in his back.  
  
The shout has him tearing up the stairs--stiffness be damned--with Bobby hard on his heels.  
  
He barrels into the room not knowing what he'll find, terrified by a thousand possibilities: Sam, riddled with pain, coughing up blood, taken by demons, by angels, by hunters. Instead, there's just Sam, sitting up in bed, eyes wide, looking for anything like he's five.  
  
"Dean," he breathes. "Bobby. Sorry, did I...did I wake you guys?"  
  
"What's going on? Are you okay?" Dean sweeps the room, finds nothing wrong but the way Sam's hands are trembling.  
  
"Yeah," Sam says, getting up and fumbling in his duffel. "Nightmare. Sorry."  
  
"Sam," Bobby says, "you sure you're okay?"  
  
Sam nods, still digging in his duffel until he pulls out a small bottle of pills and gives it a shake. "Yeah. Gonna take some Advil and go back to bed."  
  
Bobby gives them both a last look, says, "All right, then. Night, boys," and goes downstairs to lock up. Dean sits on the edge of his bed, knees weak with fading adrenaline. Sam shakes out a few pills, mutters something about needing water, and goes down the hall. Dean peels off his jeans and overshirt and sits on his bed, hands knotted. He watches Sam out of the corner of his eye when he comes back in.  
  
"So a nightmare, huh?" he says and Sam nods, visibly calmer but studiously not looking at Dean. "Anything in particular?"  
  
Sam shakes his head mutely, climbs into bed, turns out the light. Dean is left sitting in the darkness, the room faintly illuminated by the moon outside.  
  
"Sam," Dean says quietly, "you know you can tell me, right?"  
  
"I know," Sam says.  
  
But he doesn't.  
  
-  
  
A week passes and so does Dean's patience. During the day, it's as if Sam never left. He attacks Bobby's translations with enthusiasm, takes his turn at cooking with good-natured chagrin, even goads Dean into a game of football in the yard. At night, though, Sam faces nightmares that he refuses to talk about.  
  
One night Sam wakes up with a jerk and Dean makes the mistake of giving Sam's knee a comforting squeeze. Sam flies out of the bed, knocking over a nightstand and bruising his elbows to hell, but he's not scared when he gets to his feet. He's angry.  
  
"Give me a minute, damn it, Dean!" he shouts.  
  
"Sorry," Dean says, too stunned to do much else.  
  
Sam stares at him, then puts a hand to his head, muttering about needing another Advil. The bottle in his duffel is empty, so he goes down the hall to raid Bobby's medicine cabinet. When he comes back, he has an apologetic grimace on his face.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just... It's hard to shake things off right away. Sometimes I need some room."  
  
"No, I get it," Dean says. "I shouldn't have crowded you." He hesitates, then says, "You know, you can tell me--whatever it is. Share and care, man. I'm offering. Here's your rare opportunity."  
  
"There's nothing to talk about," Sam insists, expression stony. "All I'm saying is I need some space. You grabbed me, I freaked, end of story. Could you..." He lets out a breath, tension draining from his shoulders. "Next time could you just wait until I give you the okay or something?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Sure."  
  
A few nights later, Dean opens his eyes to find Sam hunched over, gripping his scalp. He kicks his sheets off to let Sam know he's awake and waits for Sam's muffled, "Okay," before he sits on the edge of Sam's bed.  
  
"Headache?"  
  
Sam straightens and rubs a hand under his nose. "Guess so. Must be fighting off the flu or something."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised. You haven't exactly been a model sleeper lately."  
  
"Understatement."  
  
They sit for a moment in silence, Sam rubbing his hands over his face every once in a while. "Clowns again?" Dean finally prompts and Sam shakes his head.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"C'mon, they're not so bad, Sammy," Dean says, but Sam doesn't take the bait.  
  
"I mean it, Dean. They're just nightmares. Let it go," he says, then lays back down like he expects Dean to do just that.  
  
And Dean does, after a fashion.  
  
The next time Sam wakes up with a dream, Dean waits for the okay and tosses a sketchbook and a ballpoint pen on Sam's stomach.  
  
"You don't want to talk about 'em, fine. Don't talk."  
  
It's a truce of sorts and Sam takes it because there's a drawing that Dean can't make heads or tails of on Sam's bed the next morning.  
  
Sam catches him looking at it and says, "Those are wings," pointing at a row of loops, before he goes downstairs to feed the dog.  
  
-  
  
Over the next two weeks, the sketchbook gets filled, but Sam's sleep is still just as troubled. Dean is willing to wait it out, sure that soon enough they're going to turn a corner and Sam will stop waking up in the middle of the night like he did in the months after Jessica's death.  
  
A corner does come, but it's not the turn Dean was hoping for. Sam wakes up and won't talk, pushes away the pad of paper Dean tosses him. Fifteen minutes later, he's puking in the toilet.  
  
He's still sick the next morning. Bobby and Dean are forced to tiptoe around the house and avoid the creaking stairs at all costs. Dean manages to slink halfway up to leave a bowl of soup for Sam on the stairs, and he pauses, listening. When he doesn't hear anything, he slides up another two steps and waits.  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Sammy?" he whispers, avoiding the second step and skirting past the loose board in the hallway. He cracks open their door and Sam's not in his bed, but the light is on in the bathroom down the hall. He sets the soup down on the nightstand and knocks softly on the bathroom door. "Sam?"  
  
Sam groans and Dean pushes the door all the way open to find his brother hunched over the toilet, gripping his hair as though he's trying to rip out the roots.  
  
"Hey." Dean pads over in his socks and puts a hesitant hand on Sam's shoulder. "You okay?" he whispers.  
  
"Head," Sam whispers back. "Really hurts."  
  
"Okay. You throw up?" Dean asks. Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if the suggestion is enough to push him over the edge. "I'll take that as a no. Want help back to the room?"  
  
Sam lifts an arm in invitation and Dean levers him up, hitting the light switch on the way out. He gets Sam back in bed and nudges the bowl of soup over to him. Sam looks green at the thought.  
  
"Okay, no soup. Guess you got the flu pretty bad, huh?"  
  
Sam's eyes open, thin lines of pain creasing their edges, but the look in them is almost hopeful. "The flu? You think so?"  
  
Dean almost laughs. "What else would it be, you moron?"  
  
"Don't know." Sam's eyes sink closed.  
  
He leaves the soup for Sam and goes back downstairs to grill some sandwiches for him and Bobby. The smell of smoke greets him once he reaches the landing. He comes into the kitchen to find blackened sandwiches already on plates and Bobby waving a dishcloth at the smoke rising from the pot of chili on the stove.  
  
"You burned it?" Dean gripes, knowing it'll get a rise out of Bobby.  
  
"A little smoke never hurt anybody," Bobby growls. He pours the chili into bowls and grimaces at the blackened bottom of the pot. "Balls."  
  
"I hear there's a sale on cookware at Macy's."  
  
"I hear there's a hunter about to earn himself KP for a month if he don't shut up and eat."  
  
"Yes, sir." Dean grins.  
  
"How's he doing?" Bobby lifts his spoon to the ceiling to mean Sam.  
  
"Fine, I guess. Sick as a dog but he's holding his own."  
  
"You really think it's the flu?"  
  
Dean shrugs. "Judging by the hourly vomiting session last night, yeah, I'd say so. Unless it's a migraine or something."  
  
Bobby sets down his spoon and pushes his bowl aside. "Dean." His voice is quiet, that grave tone to it that Dean hates to hear.  
  
"What?" Dean pushes his own bowl away and leans his elbows on the table. "What exactly do you think Sam has?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe we should run some more tests, see what's what."  
  
"Test him for what?" Dean says.  
  
"I don't know," Bobby repeats. "I just think maybe we're trying to simplify something that shouldn't be made simple."  
  
"Bobby, the guy's been through Hell. He needs some time to get back on his feet, that's all."  
  
"And that's exactly what I'm saying." Bobby leans forward, lowering his voice. "Sam needs his rest because he didn't get the jumpstart you did."  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Come again?"  
  
"Sam's in his old body. Scars, trick shoulder, the works. All this time and you didn't notice?" Bobby curses at Dean's blank look. "You got out of Hell and your hide was as smooth as a baby's behind. Sam's isn't."  
  
"So what does that mean? Huh? What does it mean, Bobby?" Dean asks. Bobby doesn't answer. "You think Heaven didn't pop Sam from the box," Dean realizes. "You think someone else did."  
  
"I'm not saying anything for sure," Bobby cautions.  
  
"You think Hell wants him? Some demon gets the bright idea to free Lucifer from the Cage and ends up freeing Sam instead?"  
  
"No, I don't think that, because _we_ are the local experts on Lucifer's Cage and there's only one way in and one way out, and the Horsemen's rings are gone."  
  
Dean opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind and closes it. Finally he says, "So what are you getting at?"  
  
Bobby folds his hands together, thick fingers resting between gnarled knuckles, hesitating before saying, "Nothing. An old man being cautious, is all."  
  
-  
  
Sam's flu lasts for another two days and then he's fine, no more headaches during the day, exhausted enough to sleep through the night. He starts jogging around the border of the scrapyard in the morning, the dog bounding at his heels, helping Bobby with translation work at night. Dean hauls out a thousand piece puzzle when it becomes clear that Sam will read through Bobby's entire library if he's not given something else to do.  
  
Dean's fixing a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink when Sam kicks his boot and says, "Take a look at this." He wriggles his way to a sitting position and takes the newspaper Sam offers, eyes skimming the highlighted portion.  
  
"What is this? Is this a hunt?" Sam quirks a grin and Dean cranes his neck to see Bobby at his desk. "Bobby, is this a hunt?"  
  
"Last I checked, it's a newspaper." Bobby slides his chair back and props his feet on the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his head.  
  
Dean flicks the newspaper at his brother. "What is this, Sam?"  
  
Sam shrugs, the picture of nonchalance, but there's a gleam in his eyes that Dean hasn't seen in a long time. "My guess is a chupacabra. I'm open to suggestions, though."  
  
Dean studies the article again and shakes his head. "Too aggressive. It's roaming too far. Chupacabras tend to hole up, remember?"  
  
"No, they don't." Sam yanks the newspaper from Dean's hand. "What do you think it is?"  
  
"Doesn't matter." Dean disappears back under the sink but can't avoid the disappointed look on Sam's face. "We're not going."  
  
"Why not?" Sam asks. "You got anywhere else to be?"  
  
Dean shrugs and fumbles with the wrench. "I don't think it's a good idea, is all."  
  
"Why?" Sam's voice is firm now, bordering on angry. "Because I'm some sort of liability?"  
  
"Because a week ago you had the flu." Dean sits up to swap out his wrench. "And you know how I feel about the Impala's upholstery."  
  
"That's a crap reason."  
  
"It's still a reason," Dean says, wriggling back under the sink. "Look, let's give it a few days. Other hunts will come up."  
  
"What difference is a few days going to make?" Sam says. "I said I'm okay."  
  
"And I said no."  
  
Sam swears, boots loud as he storms away, the back door slamming in his wake. Dean can hear Zepp barking as Sam goes out into the scrap yard, probably intending to do something destructive, only to end up fixing something instead. He sighs and tosses the wrench into the toolbox, levering himself to his feet.  
  
Bobby, for all intents and purposes, looks like he's engrossed in the book on his desk, but Dean knows better. "Did you tell him it was a chupacabra?"  
  
Bobby turns the page he was looking at. "All I did was show him the newspaper. Kid figured it all out on his own."  
  
"Well, thanks for that," Dean says. "Now on top of everything else, I've got Sam feeling like a reject because he's still dealing with a few things, never mind that he just got out of Hell a few weeks ago."  
  
Bobby takes off his reading glasses and looks Dean square in the eye. "I gave Sam that newspaper because he needs something to do. I don't know if you've noticed, but the two of you are going stir crazy." At Dean's scoffing headshake, Bobby continues, "You got out the tool box and started working on the sink this morning. I only had to ask you _once_. Sam's ripped through every bit of translation work I can find; tomorrow, I'm going to turn around and he'll be teaching the dog to behave."  
  
"Has everybody forgotten that he was tossing his cookies pretty regularly just a week ago?"  
  
"No one's forgotten and no one's trying to force your hand. But you can't treat him like he's made of china forever, Dean. I hate to break it to you, but the kid's twenty-seven." At Dean's look, Bobby rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that, you catch my drift. Sam's been making his own decisions since he could talk. I still remember him scraping the jelly off his toast, told me it wasn't the kind he asked for."  
  
"He's not ready to hunt."  
  
"Says you."  
  
"Yeah, says me. Look, I trust Sam to make his own decisions, but that doesn't mean I don't get to worry about him. And right now, yeah, I'm worried."  
  
"About what?" Bobby asks.  
  
Dean glances at the back door. "Sam's not stupid. I'm pretty sure it's clear to him that we're not going to be getting buddy-buddy with any hunters anytime soon."  
  
Bobby considers that and closes the book in front of him, a small cloud of dust rising from the pages. "You think they're going to want to string him up for being Lucifer's meatsuit."  
  
"Walt and Roy were ready to take us out--hell, they _did_ take us out--and that was just for Sam opening Lucifer's Cage. Think of how he's going to sound to hunters now, the guy who started the apocalypse and finished it by letting the Devil ride him straight into the Pit."  
  
Bobby pulls a hand through his beard. "I should've thought of that before," he mutters. "I'll see what I can do, try to get you somewhere to stay."  
  
"Here's fine."  
  
" _Here_ is Hunter Central. I've got crazy coots coming in and out of here on a weekly basis, and what with the Roadhouse gone, it's gotten worse. Can't go a month without someone knocking down my door in the name of friendship."  
  
"Where do you want us to go, then?" Dean asks. "I don't see a crowd of thankful civilians offering their pullout couches."  
  
"Hold on to your panties, boy, I ain't kicking you out. I'm just saying, if people get wind that Sam's back, it won't take long before they put two and two together and come here with their questions. When it comes right down to it, motels might be the safest place for the two of you right now. You and Sam can still hunt, you just need to be careful is all, stay under the radar."  
  
"Bobby--"  
  
"I can't say that the break hasn't been good for Sam," Bobby interrupts. "He needed to get grounded, and now he is. But it's time to start figuring out your next step, and your brother should be a part of that. I don't care what you do: hunt, don't hunt, ransack a convent for all I care. But don't lock him away like your grandmother's china."  
  
Dean runs his hands down his face wearily. "We're not ready."  
  
"He's walking and talking, Dean," Bobby says quietly. "He's Lucifer-free and off demon blood. He's a hell of a lot better than either of us expected." Bobby gets to his feet, stamping a little to get the feeling back in his leg. "Give it time. And get thinking about what you boys are gonna do next. Put the training wheels back on. Go on a hunt."  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
"I mean it. Get out of my hair for a few days, while I still have some. And don't leave that toolbox sitting in the middle of the damn floor."  
  
-  
  
When Dean pushes open the screen door, he finds his hunch was about right. Sam's doing his best to brood in the scrap yard--while also playing ball with Zepp. "For the record," Sam says, tossing the ball deep into the maze of cars, "I'm _fine_."  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
"We've hunted a lot more running on a lot less. This isn't the minor leagues, Dean. I can handle myself."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Zepp brings back the ball, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and drops it at Sam's feet. "Bobby gave me the paper, said he thought the article was interesting. I was the one who thought we should take it. Maybe it's a hunt, maybe it's not, but it sure beats sitting around the house all day. You know I haven't even been into town?" Sam throws the ball again and Dean makes himself comfortable against the doorjamb. "Almost three weeks of sitting around doing absolutely _nothing_ and I'm about to lose it. Okay? I've got too many questions and not enough answers, and I'm going to go crazy if I can't do something."  
  
Dean waits a minute after Sam's tirade, then raises his eyebrows. "You done?"  
  
Sam shakes out his arms, considering. "Yeah. I'm done."  
  
"'Kay good. Pack your stuff."  
  
"We're going to check it out?" Sam asks in disbelief.  
  
"I'm game if you are."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam's up at first light the next day, waiting with their bags packed and ready in the back of the Impala, holding out a cup of coffee for Dean. It's cool still, the sun not high enough to make everything muggy and hot, and the Impala gleams under a coat of dew. Bobby sends them off with a handwave from the front porch and an extra set of iron rounds each.  
  
"Think he's going to let us back in?" Sam asks as they drive under the Singer's Salvage sign, Zepp chasing after them until Dean honks the horn. His face is about ready to split in two with the force of his grin, and Dean feels the tight ball of worry in his gut start to unravel.  
  
"Probably not."  
  
Sam shakes out the newspaper he folded in his duffel and examines it along with the online articles he printed out. "We'll hit the national park in about six hours. That'll give us plenty of time to start tracking the chupacabra and hike in before it gets dark."  
  
"If it is a chupacabra," Dean counters, "and the first diner I see I'm stopping and getting pie." Sam doesn't argue, doesn't care, just smacks Dean's thigh with his papers and puts his hand out the window for the wind to thread through his fingers.  
  
They stop for Dean's pie, then again an hour later for gas and to stock up on Cheetos and jerky. Dean tosses a bag of M&Ms on the counter and Sam rolls his eyes, adding a pack of Starburst and heading to the bathroom. Dean is waiting by the pump, the sheaf of articles folded in his hand, and fixes Sam with a scowl when he comes back. "Are we sure this is our kind of gig?"  
  
Sam takes one of the online articles from Dean and reads, "Mike Fergusson's body was found two miles from his campsite. Authorities are baffled not only by Fergusson's reason for planting his campsite so far from a sanctioned camping area, but also by the amount of blood lost in an animal attack which seemed to draw few injuries."  
  
"So a cougar got hungry and was neat about it."  
  
"Or Fergusson was a hunter that got taken out by his prey," Sam counters.  
  
Dean's head rears back. "There were no weapons found, no silver, no salt, no holy water. What makes you think this guy was a hunter?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Call it a hunch."  
  
Dean's eyebrows climb. "We're out here on a hunch?"  
  
Sam slides into the car, tossing their snacks into the backseat. "Wouldn't be the first time."  
  
It's true and Dean doesn't really have a reason to argue, but something about the tightness around Sam's eyes makes him want to prod at Sam's reasons. Sam flips through the articles again, then puts on a pair of sunglasses and falls asleep. He jerks awake an hour later, then grimaces, opening the glovebox and rummaging around for the bottle of pills they keep in there.  
  
"It empty?" Dean asks when Sam finds it. "Check in the backseat, I think I saw--"  
  
"It's fine. I don't need anything," Sam says.  
  
Dean takes in the pale pallor of Sam's face, the way he's wincing at the sunlight. "Maybe we did this too soon."  
  
Sam straightens from where he's slumped in his seat. "Why?"  
  
"I dunno, man, are you sure you're ready for this?"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Yeah, but maybe you're body's not. Y'know, maybe you're still--"  
  
"I said I'm fine," Sam snaps.  
  
Dean shakes his head and turns the music up, ignoring Sam's wince.  
  
-  
  
They arrive an hour later, and Dean's about ready to head up to the main gate, pay the fifteen bucks for a campsite that they won't be using, but Sam says, "Keep going," and directs him around a bend, twenty minutes past the camp entrance.  
  
"Okay. Right here," Sam says and Dean slows but doesn't stop.  
  
"If you think we're going to stash the car here overnight with a 'gone for gas' sign, you're dreaming."  
  
"This is where-- This is the best place to get in. Turn in just ahead. There's a bunch of trees, you can park there."  
  
Dean sees the slight break in the trees and pulls off the side of the road, easing under the canopy formed by low-hanging branches--and pulling alongside a brown Ford Pinto.  
  
"Sam," Dean says and points.  
  
"Probably just a homeless guy." Sam gets out of the car and starts pulling their duffels from the trunk. "Lock the car, it'll be fine."  
  
Dean stands up and gapes at Sam over the hood. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Dean." Sam holds out the bag with the guns. "Trust me on this one, okay?"  
  
Dean takes the bag and Sam starts walking up the wooded slope where the trees grow less dense. "There something you're not telling me?"  
  
Sam doesn't answer.  
  
-  
  
They hike through the woods and Dean, angry and confused, lets Sam lead the way. Sam has a map out and a compass but squints at the trees around them like there are markers blazed on the bark. They're working toward the place where Mike Fergusson set up camp, Dean guesses, but then Sam finds something that makes him stuff the map away and plunge into the thicker part of the trees.  
  
"You been here before or something? Sam?" Dean follows, jogging to keep up, when Sam abruptly stops and swings out an arm to keep Dean from moving past him, eyes searching the trees.  
  
"Wait a second," Sam says in a low voice. "I think--"  
  
A figure moves from behind a tree, hands raised before Dean can pull a gun on him. "Hi there. You lose your way?"  
  
Dean pulls Sam back a few steps, not lowering his gun. "What's it to you?"  
  
"Nothing." The man shrugs and Dean takes the moment to do a quick catalog. Calloused hands, weathered face, iron gray at his temples. Not unfamiliar with being on the business end of a gun. The pieces start falling into place.  
  
"We saw your Pinto back by the road," Dean says, flicking the safety on his gun. "Don't usually run into many hunters on the job."  
  
The man lowers his arms and extends a hand. "Same here. Name's Martin. Lucas Martin, but most call me Bowie."  
  
"Like the knife?"  
  
The man chuckles, teeth flashing white. "Cliché, but yeah. I'm thinking the two of you are more familiar with guns, though, am I right? Rifles?" he says, eyes narrowed, and ice freezes in Dean's gut, Sam stiffening beside him.  
  
"We don't want any trouble," Sam says, voice measured.  
  
"And I'm not offering any. There's more fable than fact spinning out there about the two of you, and none of it makes a lick of sense, but that's not what I'm interested in right now. Right now, I'm on a hunt, and this isn't a monster I've seen before. I've checked out the campsite and I think I've got a bearing on its den. Bobby Singer's mentioned your names once or twice, old coot in South Dakota."  
  
"We know him," Dean says.  
  
"Yeah, he knows you too, to hear him talk." Martin folds his arms across his chest and surveys them both. "Now, I like to work alone but I'm not stupid. I trust my gut and the opinion of a few good men. I don't take crap and I'm not looking for handouts, but if Singer still deals with you and if you want to stay on this hunt, I wouldn't mind having a couple extra eyes on my back. What do you say?"  
  
-  
  
In the end, they say yes. Dean would rather play it safe and leave Martin to it, but Sam is dead-set on this hunt for reasons that he refuses to explain. They check Martin's rep with Bobby, Sam moving a few feet away to make the call while Martin checks the edge of his knife and waits patiently until Sam gives Dean the go ahead.  
  
"Ready?" Martin says when Sam nods. "I've got a trap up ahead I want to check on, see if it's been disturbed at all."  
  
They move forward, Martin in the lead this time, Sam taking up the back. They have an hour until it's completely dark, by Dean's guess, and the tree cover makes the dusky shadows darker when they finally stop. Martin uses a stick to set off the metal spring trap on the ground, barely visible in the gloom, then flicks on a flashlight and bends down to examine it, Sam and Dean following suit.  
  
"This thing must be smaller than I thought. This could hold it?" Dean asks, indicating the size of the metal jaws.  
  
Martin shakes his head. "I was just trying to get a read on whether it's nocturnal or not. Doesn't look like." He turns the trap from side to side. "This was baited when I left." He straightens. "One thing we do know: it likes meat."  
  
"And it's fast," Sam says.  
  
"Faster than I want to face alone," Martin agrees.  
  
"We were thinking chupacabra," Dean says. "But no chupacabra I've ever heard of is that fast or that smart."  
  
"Were-something?" Martin suggests. "Could be more sentient than we're expecting."  
  
"Wendigo?" Sam puts in quietly.  
  
"Great. Awesome," Dean mutters.  
  
Martin starts gathering up the trap, glancing around them as he does so, and Dean feels a warm presence at his elbow, Sam's fingers pulling at his sleeve. "Hey. Stick close, okay?" Sam says. His face is shadowed blue in the dying light.  
  
"Sam," Dean says in a low voice, "I don't know what the hell is going on but you can't keep stringing me along. I want some answers." He casts a glance behind him to where Martin is eyeing them curiously and pitches his voice lower. "Did you know about him?"  
  
"Not exactly. Dean, I swear, I'll explain everything later, but right now--"  
  
"So help me, Sam, if you give me the 'trust me' crap, I will hit you in the face."  
  
"Dean, please." Sam's eyes skip from Martin to the trees around them, agitated in the growing dark. "I will tell you everything, I promise, but until we get somewhere safe, I need you to follow my lead or there's a good chance nobody's going to get out of here alive."  
  
Dean's jaw clenches and then he straightens, hand going to his gun. "Okay," he says. "What's the plan?"  
  
"Get to camp. Light a fire. We need to get out of the woods."  
  
Dean nods sharply. "Hey, Martin. You ready?"  
  
"Yeah." Martin looks between the two of them, trap slung over his shoulder.  
  
Then all hell breaks loose.  
  
A chittering yowl sounds above them, just before something dark streaks from the trees--not a chupacabra or a wendigo, something else, something bigger, with sharper claws and longer teeth. Martin yells, twisting under the black shape, then there's another howl and the thing draws back, hissing at the long knife in Martin's hand. Three rapid shots from Sam has it back in the trees, crossing overhead on the branches so quickly that Dean can only catch glimpses of it: cat eyes, patches of fur.  
  
He doesn't even know it's behind him until a dense weight hits his back, driving all the air from his lungs. He grunts, dirt in his mouth, and Martin is shouting something and it's dark, too dark to see anything. Something drags it off and he scrabbles in the gloom: root, dirt, dirt, stick, where's his gun? Then it's back, sharp claws pricking his skin, hot breath at his neck. He turns with a pained grunt, catches a glimpse of Sam's panicked face, and then--  
  
White light explodes from Sam's palm. Dean closes his eyes against the brightness and throws his arms over his head, the monster writhing on the forest floor a mere three feet from him. When he opens his eyes, the monster is a pile of ash and Sam is kneeling on the ground with blood running down his chin, looking down the barrel of Martin's gun.  
  
"I don't want to," Martin says evenly, "but it's not right."  
  
"Martin," Dean says, getting to his feet and pitching his voice low, "put the gun away."  
  
"I've got no quarrel with you." He gives Dean a quick look and adjusts his grip on the gun. Sam's flashlight is on the ground, casting eerie shadows over their faces. "But I can't let your brother go."  
  
"Look, neither of us are new to the business, Martin. There's a boatload of crazy stuff out there and it's not all black and white. You know it and I know it."  
  
"You're right," Martin says, "I've seen a thing or two. More often than not from people who mess with things too big for them." He nods at Sam. "People asking for more power than they can handle."  
  
"That's not what this is, all right?" Sam says. "I can explain."  
  
Dean edges forward. "You live this life long enough and you learn to trust your gut, I get that, but I'd bet my car that neither of us would be here to have this conversation if it wasn't for Sam, so how about we just hear him out, see what he's got to say?"  
  
Sam waits on his knees as Martin considers. Then Martin shakes his head minutely. "I'm sorry, Dean."  
  
His finger slips inside the trigger guard and Dean lunges. The gun flies from Martin's hand and he stumbles back a step, Dean's fingers locked around his throat. "I wouldn't," Dean says when Martin reaches for the knife at his hip. He meets Sam's eyes and jerks his chin. "Pick up the gun, Sam."  
  
Sam gets to his feet, wavering just a moment before he picks up the flashlight and finds the gun a few feet away, returning to stand at Dean's back. Martin's eyes are wide but not surprised when Dean leans in close.  
  
"This never happened and you were never here," Dean says. "You can handle that, we're good. If that's too much, we've got other ways of dealing with things."  
  
"It's not all black and white, you said," Martin grinds out, mouth twisted in a smile. "You've lived in the gray too long. Nothing human can do that." He looks over Dean's shoulder at Sam and Dean pinches his fingers tighter.  
  
"Two choices, Martin: save your breath or lose it."  
  
He loosens his grip enough for Martin to drag in a whistling breath, letting it out in a half-laugh. "I should've listened to the rumors. Everything that's been said about you two..." He digs his nails into Dean's wrist and Dean lets go of his throat, nods at Sam to keep the gun trained on Martin's chest. Martin coughs, eyes watering but steady. "You're playing a losing game here. Even if I don't talk, word'll get out. It always does."  
  
"That's our problem. All I expect you to do is watch your mouth."  
  
The muscles in Martin's jaw, his temple, clench as he thinks. Then he nods, a short jerk, and it doesn't mean much, not even an exchange of words, but it's enough for now. Martin doesn't move as they sweep the clearing, scuffing the pile of ash and slinging the duffels over their shoulders.  
  
They get to the car without incident. Sam's nose is still bleeding sluggishly, and he presses a bandana to the lower half of his face, hesitating before getting in the car like he expects Dean to drive off without him. And for a brief moment, that's all Dean wants to do--leave the secrets and the craziness and whatever the hell is going on behind. He tosses the duffels in the trunk, then slides behind the wheel. Sam's waiting outside, hand wrapped around the door handle. Dean shakes his head.  
  
"Get in."  
  
-  
  
They get on the highway without a word. Sam spends the first hour staring at the dash, the second staring at Dean. His face is back to its normal color, the blood wiped away. Purple shadows linger under his eyes like he hasn't slept in ages, giving his face a haunted look.  
  
He has his back to Dean, forehead pressed to the glass, when Dean breaks the silence.  
  
"How long?" he asks. Sam stiffens, lifting a hand to his chin like he still expects to feel the wash of blood there, but Dean doesn't wait for an answer. "What else can you do?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You sure about that?"  
  
"Dean, I--"  
  
"There was a reason you didn't want to talk about your nightmares," Dean says. "Because they weren't nightmares, were they? You were having visions.  
  
Sam grimaces. "I wasn't sure."  
  
Dean curses quietly, shaking his head. "I should've known. Bobby told me, he _told_ me you were in your old body. He knew." He shakes his head again, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "It wasn't the flu, was it? God, I am so blind."  
  
"Dean," Sam says brokenly.  
  
"You knew you were back in your old body and Bobby knew and the only one who couldn't put two and two together was me." He straightens his shoulders, flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. "So. Give me the rundown. What can you do?"  
  
"Visions." Sam clears his throat. "Whatever...happened back there. That's it so far."  
  
"That's it, nothing else?"  
  
"I, uh, I'm not sure yet."  
  
Dean cuts a glance over, barely catches Sam's profile in the dark. "But you think there might be."  
  
"Maybe," Sam says quietly. "I don't know." He picks at a loose string on his jeans, glancing at Dean. "Are you mad?"  
  
Dean barks a laugh, caught between the white lines of paint dividing the road. "I don't know, man. Maybe. A little. But I don't know what the hell anymore."  
  
Sam looks at him for a minute in silence before letting the air leave him on a sigh. "That makes two of us."  
  
-  
  
The house is dark when they pull up, and Bobby greets them with a shotgun because it's 3:46 and they didn't say they were on their way back.  
  
"What's wrong? What happened?" he asks but Dean shakes his head and says, "In the morning."  
  
In the morning doesn't happen, though, because there's the flutter of wings, the faint smell of ozone, and Castiel says, "What did you do?"  
  
"Castiel," Sam says, in an awed voice. "You're alive."  
  
"I am," Castiel says, "despite Lucifer's attempts otherwise."  
  
"Oh, hello to you to," Dean says, shouldering in with enough force that Castiel takes a step back. "So all it takes to get a little customer service from Heaven is to burn something to a crisp with your mind?"  
  
"I heard your prayers, Dean."  
  
"And my phone calls," Dean says. "And the general 'Here I am, come get me' I sent out to whatever would listen."  
  
"Despite appearances, Heaven has not been disinterested. Other matters held our attention--Sam, specifically."  
  
"What about him?" Bobby asks, shotgun still at the ready.  
  
"Heaven has had him on our radar, so to speak, but we were waiting to make contact until the opportune moment."  
  
"Opportune moment for what exactly?" Bobby asks.  
  
Castiel turns to Sam. "To tell you why we raised you from the Cage."  
  
"You raised me," Sam repeats. "I don't have a handprint--"  
  
"--and we were forced to leave you in your former state, sadly, yes."  
  
"Which means what?" Dean asks.  
  
"Only that Heaven is far weaker than it should be," Castiel says. "I am sorry, Sam. I wish we could have healed you, in gratitude for what you did, but our current resources are such that only one cleansing could take place. We were able to heal your abilities, but not your body."  
  
"My _abilities_?" Sam says. "You mean my powers?" His gaze skips from Bobby to Dean. "You told me not to use them. I was an abomination, you said--"  
  
"When you relied on drinking demon blood to fuel them, yes," Castiel says, "but inherently they're not evil, Sam. Azazel gave them to you and turned them to his will, but now that they're purified..."  
  
"You want Sam to use them," Dean concludes, eyes narrowed.  
  
Sam folds his arms, taking a step back. "That's why you raised me. It wasn't because you were trying to save me, you wanted to _use_ me."  
  
"That's not the--"  
  
"The next words out of your mouth better be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God, Cas," Dean says.  
  
Castiel takes a breath, looking between the three of them. "Heaven wants Sam as a rallying point."  
  
"A rallying point," Sam echoes.  
  
"What, like a mascot?" Dean asks.  
  
"Like a weapon. What you did today in the woods was something close to a nuclear explosion. It's unconventional to recruit soldiers this way, but Heaven could use a power like that."  
  
"Use it how?" Bobby asks.  
  
"If we are correct, Sam has the benefit of angelic powers without the detriment of angelic form. He would be accepted where we would not."  
  
"You mean like in demon central," Dean says.  
  
"There," Castiel agrees, "and elsewhere. The wards that hold out an angel would not affect him. Traps that would be triggered when an angel nears would allow him to pass. Essentially, he'd be a human with an angel's abilities--very valuable, very rare."  
  
"So because Heaven's weak, you need me as a super soldier?" Sam says. "I'm still _human_ , Cas. I can't just march into battle and expect to survive."  
  
"I agree. It is my belief that Heaven doesn't need your strength, Sam; it needs your presence. We're fractioned and divided, without a leader or a purpose. But if we had something to rally behind, something in common that we all agree on, our strength would be united and we would be restored to our former glory."  
  
There's a long moment of silence, broken when Bobby scrapes a hand across his beard and says, "And everybody up there agrees with you."  
  
Castiel hesitates before saying, "Sam is free to make his own choice."  
  
"According to you, maybe." Bobby folds his arms. "I'm going to go out on a limb, though, and say that not all your cronies up there would agree."  
  
Castiel sighs. "The different garrisons rarely agree over anything. Some believe the other factions won't pay attention unless Sam is put in a more central role. That...would be detrimental, I think. I believe it would be in everyone's best interest if Sam's role is mainly symbolic, that of a spy rather than a soldier."  
  
"I bet that went over like a lead balloon," Bobby says. "We've had a taste of what Heaven's free will is like. You might think that Sam can do what he likes, but I'm willing to bet that the rest of your pals decided James Bond isn't their cup of tea and that Sam doesn't get a say-so. That if they're going to rally behind a soldier, he'd better be a damn good one and not just a figurehead. Am I close?"  
  
Dean huffs a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. "God, Cas, it's the same old song and dance. Heaven sent you to tell Sam he can choose to come quietly or you'll smite him. You're tossing him to the wolves because Heaven can't keep itself together and decided it needs a Special Ops unit."  
  
"I know what it seems," Castiel says, looking at Sam, "but it was the only way you could be saved. Given the choice, I would do it again--Lucifer's Cage is a worse hell than anything that could be devised on earth. But you have to know, your powers and the amount of demon blood you consumed to take Lucifer in... Those things leave scars."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Dean says, eyes narrowed.  
  
Castiel drops his head. "Even I'm not sure," he admits. "One of the reasons I thought it best if Sam was simply a figurehead is that we don't know how he'll respond to his powers."  
  
"You don't want me to use them," Sam says. "You think I'll go darkside? That I didn't learn my lesson?"  
  
"I know that you are well-intentioned, Sam. I don't doubt that you have learned from your mistakes. But sometimes the force overtakes the enforcer. It's not you I don't trust, it's what you possess and what kind of payment it might take from you."  
  
"Payment," Bobby echoes.  
  
"Headaches, nosebleeds," Sam says. "Nothing I haven't handled before."  
  
"For now," Castiel says. "I hope that's all you have to face."  
  
"Well, we'll keep you in the loop if Sam grows an extra arm or something, and we promise to use the Force wisely."  
  
"That's all I ask," Castiel says, smiling a little. He glances around the room, taking in the innocuous wards and symbols hidden in corners or scratched in the wood. "You might want to refresh those, reinforce with what you can. I can't pretend that Heaven will be pleased to hear your answer, but I'll do my best to keep the others from trailing you."  
  
"What do you think they'll do?" Sam asks.  
  
"I don't know. A great amount of effort was expended to rescue you. Most think you should be grateful."  
  
"For letting you use Sam as a guinea pig without his permission?" Dean says. "Yeah, thanks a million, and tell your pals."  
  
Castiel smiles, then offers his hand to Sam. "I'm glad you're doing well, Sam," he says. He turns to Dean and Bobby, shaking their hands in turn. "I wish I could have brought better news."  
  
"Yeah, well. If you do ever get better news, swing by," Dean says. "It'd be good to see you."  
  
Castiel smiles. "I'll find you."  
  
He's gone as silently as he came.  
  
-  
  
They get a few hours of sleep and fuel the rest of the day with coffee. Bobby puts them to work with a list of chores, says he has some errands to run in town. Sam scans the list and Dean rolls his eyes but they get to it, hauling old tires, painting the shed, stripping cars of their useable parts. It's easy for Dean to get lost in the work and lose track of time, numbed to everything but the here and now of what's in front of his hands. He's surprised when Sam tosses his sweat-stained shirt at Dean's head and tells him it's time for lunch. They make sandwiches and eat chips on the porch, Sam peeling an orange and tossing the skin down the steps where the dog noses at it experimentally.  
  
"Think you could float it?" Dean asks.  
  
Sam turns over a piece of the peel, considering, and shrugs. "Dunno. Want me to try?"  
  
Dean mirrors Sam's shrug and gets up, thwapping Sam's shoulder. "C'mon. Back to it. You drag the tires behind the shed, I'll get the carburetor out of that Ford?"  
  
-  
  
Bobby comes back with buffalo wings from a place in town and Dean heats up a frozen pizza, cracks open beers for the three of them. They're mostly quiet until Bobby says, "All right. Give me the scoop," and what happened comes out in bits and pieces: the hunt, finding Lucas Martin, the creature, the kill.  
  
"You knew where we were going," Dean realizes. Sam had been pulling apart his pizza crust but lets it fall from his hands now. "You told me where to park, you barely even needed the map."  
  
"I'd had a vision," Sam says. "Before we left."  
  
"You saw the thing go after Martin?"  
  
Sam grimaces. "I saw it go after you. It was only visions, until..." He ducks his head a little. "I didn't know about anything else."  
  
"I'm surprised you let Martin see your little show," Bobby says, leaning back in his chair. "Bowie's a fair man, but he's got no reason to keep secrets for you."  
  
"Keeping secrets isn't hard; all you have to do is not open your mouth. Which is what he's going to do if he knows what's good for him."  
  
"Still, word'll get out. It might be easier if we split up," Sam offers. "You can keep hunting, I can--"  
  
"Not happening," Dean interrupts.  
  
"Hear me out," Sam says. "Just for a while," but Dean shakes his head sharply.  
  
"I'm not doing it, Sam. I spent this summer at the bottom of a bottle. Ask Bobby; it wasn't pretty. I hate to say it, but you're stuck with me. Whatever we're doing, we're doing it together."  
  
Some of the tension eases from Sam's shoulders, but he still presses, "Hunting isn't going to be easy."  
  
"Hunting with the FBI on our backs wasn't easy. Hunting with Gordon thinking you'd be a tasty snack wasn't easy. This?" Dean shrugs. "Piece of cake. I mean, it's not like we haven't done the whole powers trip before, right? We're pros at this kind of thing."  
  
"I don't want to be the one to rain on your parade," Bobby says, leaning his arms on the table, "and it's not like I hate the company, but Martin's right, word'll get out. Unless you want to open the door and find yourselves blinking at the bullet holes between your eyes, you boys need to hunker down somewhere until this all blows over. In the meantime," Bobby tosses a set of keys on the table, "here."  
  
Dean picks the keys up with a raised eyebrow. "I hate to break it to you, but you're about fifteen years too late."  
  
"I figure you can keep the Impala here," Bobby says as if Dean hadn't said anything. "Put her out back, tarp her up. No one'll go looking back in the salvage yard; it'd be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles."  
  
Dean's jaw drops. "You're crazy if you think I'm leaving my car."  
  
"It's a marker that you can't afford," Bobby says firmly.  
  
"We've flown under the radar with the Impala before," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "We'll be careful. I'll call in on the hunts we take, see if there's anybody around that you know of."  
  
"Is this your roundabout way of asking me to do more legwork?" Bobby gripes, but he takes the keys back and Dean breathes easier. "I'll expect you boys to keep your heads down. I catch wind of you, you'll wish I hadn't."  
  
"So we go to ground?"  
  
"We go to ground."


	3. Chapter 3

It's been so long since they hunted without the apocalypse behind them that they've almost forgotten how. They drive aimlessly for a bit while Sam searches the local newspapers of each town they visit, checking in with the waitresses as they get warm-ups on their coffee to see whether anything strange has been happening.  
  
Strangely enough, the hunt they end up taking isn't mentioned in the newspaper at all. They're passing through some no-name town in Alabama when Sam sits up and grabs the dashboard and says, "Wait," in a voice that has Dean slamming on the brakes and pulling off the road. "Go back. There's something... I think there's a hunt here."  
  
There is a hunt, as it turns out. Jeremiah Kennedy took a bullet to the head after his crops failed, but his spirit is alive and well, enough to keep them busy dodging pitchforks in their attempt to salt and burn the part of the barn where the deed was done. It's pretty much a given that they're going to have to torch the whole thing, but there's a small copse of trees not too far where they can stay to make sure only the barn burns and nothing else--and hey, one hunt down, no hunters around, and apparently Sam can do more than have visions and toast things with his mind.  
  
"You've got some sort of ESP thing happening now, too?" Dean asks when they're settled a safe distance, empty gas can in tow.  
  
"Guess so," Sam says, watching the roof of the barn go up in flames.  
  
"Headache?"  
  
Sam considers. "No. At least, not yet."  
  
"So how'd you figure there was a hunt here?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "It just felt wrong. I didn't know what it was until we passed the barn on the way out and everything sort of clicked."  
  
"You knew it was a ghost."  
  
"No, just that it was supernatural. But I think..." Sam hesitates and the barn's roof crashes in before he continues, "Knowing what it is? I don't think that would take too much practice."  
  
Dean's eyebrows shoot up but he doesn't say anything more than, "Guess maybe you should practice."  
  
-  
  
As if Dean's given tacit permission, Sam takes to exploring his powers in the sanctuary of whatever motel they stay in each night. Lighting things on fire isn't a regular thing, so they guess that the big guns are reserved for times of greater stress, when someone's really in trouble. ESP, though, can happen with a fraction of Sam's concentration. So can reading auras. That quickly rises in Dean's estimation as one of his favorite powers: it leaves no trace and makes interviewing witnesses a hundred times easier.  
  
"What do you think?" Dean asks after their most recent grill session.  
  
Sam shakes his head. "He's lying. His colors were all wrong."  
  
Two weeks ago that kind of phrasing would have been categorized under Crazy Talk. Now, it's become their kind of normal.  
  
"Earlier this week you said he was the best lead we had."  
  
"He wasn't lying then. Something's spooked him."  
  
Dean waits a few minutes, long enough for them to pull into the parking lot of the diner and head for a booth in the corner, before he asks, "What color does lying look like?"  
  
Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, unfolds his menu, and shrugs. "It's hard to explain."  
  
Which is pretty much par for the course these days.  
  
-  
  
They get used to Sam casting out energy, looking for supernatural influences as they pass through towns, and then reading the auras of civilians to glean information about the hunt. It's more difficult to get used to the side effects that come with Sam's powers.  
  
They're on a salt-and-burn in Maine, Sam digging, Dean keeping watch with the shotgun, when Sam straightens and says, "Dean!"  
  
Dean turns and fires, used to trusting Sam's instinct without thought, and hits nothing but air.  
  
"Sorry. I thought I saw something." Sam's staring at the space behind Dean, squinting a little, like if he focuses hard enough whatever he saw will come back. "Never mind."  
  
A few minutes later, it happens again. Dean doesn't fire this time, doesn't want to keep wasting rounds firing at nothing, and Sam shakes his head and keeps digging. Sam pauses twice more before he reaches the coffin, but he doesn't say anything. He pries off the lid of the coffin and reaches for the lighter fluid, dousing the corpse and finishing with a layer of salt, before cringing and holding a hand to his ear.  
  
"You hear that?"  
  
Dean keeps an eye on Sam and surveys the area around them. "Hear what?"  
  
"That ringing, it's driving me crazy." Sam winces and peels his hand away but keeps his shoulders bunched up. "Forget it, let's just finish this. Where're the matches?"  
  
Dean digs in his pocket for the box of matches and feels something icy clutch his shoulders. The next minute he's flying back and hits something hard enough to see stars. Sam shouts, grunting as he hauls himself out of the grave, then there's the sound of the shotgun blast.  
  
When Dean finally sits up and focuses his eyes, Sam is crouched in front of him, his eyes wide as he reaches out and touches Dean's head at the center of all the pain. Dean hisses and jerks away.  
  
"What the hell, man?"  
  
"Sorry," Sam mutters, taking his hand away and looking at his fingers.  
  
"I'm not bleeding."  
  
"No, I know, I just..." Sam wipes his hand on his pants and looks at it again. "Thought you were."  
  
They stay until the fire dies down, then they fill the grave back up and scatter leaves over the top so anybody happening past wouldn't immediately notice that it had been disturbed. Sam offers to drive back but Dean says, "Dude, I hit my head, I didn't get a concussion," and gets behind the wheel. A few minutes later, he asks, "Your ear thing go away?"  
  
Sam stiffens, then shrugs. "Guess so."  
  
"You have that often?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Dean steals a glance at Sam. "Well, good. 'Cause if you did, I'd be worried."  
  
Sam still doesn't give, and Dean sighs.  
  
"If you're worried I'll get mad because it's about your powers, man, I don't care. Okay?"  
  
"I didn't say it was my powers."  
  
"You don't have to say it. It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together. I'm just saying, I'm not blind. I get that you were a human EMF reader back there tonight. Right?"  
  
Sam takes a breath, shoulders coming down a little. "Yeah," he admits.  
  
"You knew the ghost was coming. That was your ear thing."  
  
"And I saw..." Sam gestures at Dean's head. "It was red."  
  
"I wasn't bleeding."  
  
"No, I know, but it...looked red."  
  
Dean considers for a moment, then says, "Okay."  
  
"Okay?" Sam says, shifting in his seat to face Dean. "This isn't _okay_ , Dean, this is crazy! I'm seeing _lights_. I'm seeing things that aren't even there! And I'm hearing things. In most people's books, I'm pretty much certifiable at this point."  
  
"Our books aren't exactly the same as other people's books, Sam. You have visions, you can zap things with your mind. You're psychic, it comes with the territory."  
  
"I'm more than psychic, Dean, I'm saddled with otherworldly abilities. This doesn't freak you out?"  
  
"Man, where have I heard that before?"  
  
"Dean, I'm serious."  
  
"So am I. Look, Haley Joel, just keep me updated on the seeing and hearing things and we'll figure it out as we go."  
  
There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the Impala's wheels on the road. Then Sam breaths out and says, "Yeah."  
  
They both pretty much ignore the way that Sam keeps staring at his fingers.  
  
-  
  
Bobby calls the next day with a hunt in Montana, a restless spirit unhappy about a family remodeling their house. Dean wakes up with a headache that even a handful of aspirin doesn't cure, but when they get to Montana it's Sam who's snappish and irritable, can't get his head in the game long enough to sweet-talk the civilians. Dean ends up finishing up the job himself and returns to the motel in the evening to find Sam bleary-eyed and sleepless because everything is "too loud" even though they're on the edge of farm country. A week of hunting down the quietest motels and relegating themselves to salt-and-burns gets Sam back on his feet but he's not one hundred percent and they both know it.  
  
It's the second week of September when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night after a vision of a haunting in Oregon. Dean convinces him it can wait until morning, but he's up at 7 a.m. and packing his duffel by the time Dean drags on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decides it's time to address the elephant in the room.  
  
"Listen," he says, "I know you're gung-ho about this hunt and all--"  
  
"I saw a kid, Dean," Sam snaps. "You'd want to get there too."  
  
"I know and I get that. I'm just saying... What if we don't take it?"  
  
"Why wouldn't we take it?"  
  
"Why not let Dixon have it? Or call Bobby, pass it off to him. He'll find somebody."  
  
Sam stops packing. "If this is about me and my...distractions, I'm fine. I've got it under control. They're getting better."  
  
"It's not about that." At Sam's look, Dean admits, "Okay, it is, kind of. Just what...what do you say we stop. Just for a little."  
  
"Stop," Sam repeats. "Stop hunting?"  
  
"We'll pass this one off. Take a break for a while. I just think that it'd be better for all parties involved if we took some time off to let you get a handle on things, see what else crops up with your powers, and then get back in the game."  
  
Sam looks at Dean. "You know, Dad would be rolling in his grave if he could hear you talk like that."  
  
Dean shrugs. "Think about it, man, the world isn't ending. No one wants us to choose sides--" Sam snorts and Dean amends, "--except the angels, as always. But, Sam, seriously. We can do this. Hell, whether we can do it or not, I think we deserve it. Just for a little while."  
  
Sam picks up the next shirt and folds it with exaggerated care, turning things over in his mind. Finally, he says, "Where do you want to go?"  
  
Dean pulls a map from the side of his duffel and spreads it out on the side table. "You pick."  
  
-  
  
They're crossing the state line when Sam calls Bobby and tells him about the hunt in Oregon. "Whoever you send needs to get on it. I think what I saw happens this weekend."  
  
"All right, I'll call, see who's in the area. If you boys are itching for something else, there's a poltergeist, looks like, down in Texas."  
  
"Thanks, Bobby, but I think we'll pass."  
  
"Something else catch your eye?"  
  
Sam slides a glance at Dean and says, "Um, Dean wants to talk to you." Dean shakes his head, glaring, and smacks Sam when he puts the phone on speaker.  
  
"Dean?" Bobby's voice is tinny. "Everything all right?"  
  
"Everything's fine, we're just...dealing with some new developments."  
  
"What kind of developments?" Bobby's voice takes on an edge.  
  
Dean hesitates, waits for Sam's small nod before answering, "Perception, mostly. Seeing things. Hearing things. Generally acting as spacey as a gum-snapping teenage girl. Anything I'm missing, Sam?" Sam glares and Dean grins. "Yeah, I think that's it."  
  
"All right. So where does that leave us?"  
  
Dean shoots a glance at Sam. "Sam and I are taking a break. Temporarily. Holing up somewhere until Sam gets his whatever under control."  
  
Bobby doesn't sound as surprised as Dean expected. "Where at?"  
  
"Don't know yet."  
  
"Well, call me when you do."  
  
"Roger that."  
  
He flips the phone shut and tosses it at Sam. "You want to be a bit more specific than _east_?"  
  
Sam grins. "I'll tell you when we get there."  
  
-  
  
It's the close of the third week of September when they cross Virginia's border and pull into a town called Pooles. Sam gets out, takes a breath like he's been holding it the whole way, and says, "We're here."  
  
They poke around a little, call Bobby and ask about what he knows. Pooles isn't mentioned in John's journal and Bobby's never heard of the place. There's a load of legends surrounding the town, of course, but they're genuinely bogus as far as Dean can tell. There's not a hunter in two hundred miles that Bobby knows of and none of Sam's alarms go off on their first and second drive-through.  
  
They check in at the motel and pay cash. Dean nods at a bar as they drive past, says, "What do you say?"  
  
"Hustling? We want to stay here, not get kicked out, remember?"  
  
"Fine, fine. Actual jobs it is, then. See anything that looks appealing?"  
  
"There was a garage down the way."  
  
"Yahtzee," Dean says and turns them that way.  
  
They're about to close for the day but the owner, a burly man with a handlebar mustache, takes one look at the Impala and agrees to give her a look-see. An hour later, Dean has a job.  
  
"Cakewalk," Dean crows as they're pulling out of the garage. "I had it in the bag within the first fifteen minutes, but he wanted to know how I did the cassette player's wiring."  
  
"So that's why you made me get out."  
  
"Couldn't have your gigantic legs in the way of my good work, Sammy. All right, here are your options: diner or Chinese."  
  
"Chinese," Sam sighs, "and let's take it back to the room."  
  
Dean shoots him a concerned look. "Tired?"  
  
"Kind of."  
  
"Did you get any feelings about Rick? Any aura things?"  
  
"He seems like a good guy," Sam says. "To be honest, I wasn't really looking."  
  
"It's getting better?" Dean seems pleased.  
  
"It's only been a day so all bets are off, but if I concentrate on keeping a lid on things, it's easier to not let everything--" Sam makes a motion that Dean guesses means _powers_ , "--get in the way."  
  
"Awesome," Dean says and doesn't seem to mind when Sam lets him head inside the Chinese restaurant and order for both of them, returning with plastic cartons full of kung pao and fried rice.  
  
They're in the middle of dinner at the motel, TV turned to some talk show, when Dean cracks open his fortune cookie and asks, "What are you gonna do?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"A job. Unless you're planning on sitting on your thumbs and letting me make a living for us both the way you normally do..."  
  
"Shut up, I'll work. I don't know. Grocery store, maybe?"  
  
"You're going to be a bag boy?"  
  
Sam throws a piece of chicken at Dean. "Fine, come up with a better suggestion."  
  
"I've already got one. Teaching."  
  
"You have to be credentialed to teach, Dean."  
  
"So get credentialed. Or don't. We can fake it."  
  
"I don't want to fake it."  
  
"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're going straight now just because we're settling down for few weeks."  
  
"I don't want to teach," Sam says firmly, poking at his kung pao. "I don't think it's a good idea."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I'd be around kids."  
  
Dean looks incredulous. "What, are you allergic to them or something?"  
  
"No," Sam says quietly.  
  
"So what's wrong with them?"  
  
"Nothing's wrong with them," Sam says. "But there might be something wrong with me."  
  
Dean's head rears back. "What?"  
  
"We don't know how I'll react. I think it'd be best to keep a lid on things for a while. Until I'm sure."  
  
"Sure about _what_? Sam, we have a social circle of almost none and we still run into kids all the time. You saw it driving past the school: there are definitely kids in this town. And there's gonna be kids in the next town and the next. I'm sorry but it's crazy to me that with everything that's gunning for us right now, you're worried about _kids_. Because yeah, they're dirty little snot-balls most of the time, but they're not exactly dangerous."  
  
Sam rubs his thumbnail over his knuckles. "I think maybe I'm the dangerous one."  
  
Dean's head jerks up. "You're not serious."  
  
"I've only been around you and Bobby so far--"  
  
"Yeah, but you're not exactly the axe-murdering type, Sam."  
  
"I _wasn't_. Letting Lucifer ride me is kind of a big deal. It's not crazy to want to make sure I've got all the kinks worked out before I put myself as an authority figure over a bunch of kids."  
  
"Sam." Dean almost laughs at how ridiculous this is, but Sam's face is serious.  
  
"Dean, I know you want to think everything's normal up here," he taps his temple, "but it's not. Believe me, it's not."  
  
"You're psychic. It's not the end of the world. You had this all before and didn't worry once about being around kids."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Trust me, Dean. It's not like it was before."  
  
"Okay, fine. Maybe it's not," Dean allows. "But there's one thing I want you to remember." He enunciates slowly, pushing the words out like an offering. "You are not dangerous. You're not violent. I want you to get that through your head. If I'm going to be worrying about anybody's ass on this planet, it's not gonna be some kid's, it's gonna be yours."  
  
Sam's frown quirks. "You're worried about my ass?"  
  
"Real mature, Sam," Dean grumbles, tossing Sam's fortune cookie at his head. "Listen, if worse comes to worse, you can skip the job and we'll use the credit cards."  
  
"At the same motel? For weeks on end?"  
  
"We don't even know we'll be here that long. All I'm saying is that the garage can cover us until we decide to get back into it."  
  
"I can work," Sam insists quietly.  
  
"All right. We'll figure it out. Until then, let's just take it a day at a time."  
  
-  
  
They spend the next day at the Kinko's a few towns over, laminating fake IDs and getting info from Bobby about the paperwork he's going to send over for them with their new backgrounds as "fine upstanding citizens." They drive past the high school at 3:30 and Dean tries not to make it obvious that he's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam's fears aren't completely unfounded, but the only thing he sees is the way that Sam's hands are knit in his lap, Sam's eyes skittering over the crowd of teenagers like he doesn't know whether to acknowledge them or pretend they don't exist. _Trying to be normal_ , his brain supplies, but Sam couldn't be normal if he tried.  
  
They get meatloaf sandwiches for dinner and put their badges and aliases in the Impala's trunk, replacing them with new driver's licenses with the names _Sam Campbell_ and _Dean Campbell_. Sam's complaining about the picture Dean used on his license when the phone rings. Dean checks the screen, then puts it on speaker.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Bobby's voice comes over the line. "Is Sam there?"  
  
Dean looks over at Sam. "Yeah, you're on speaker."  
  
"This gonna be overheard?"  
  
"Aside from the two of us, no."  
  
"Good. I'll make it quick. Word got out about Lucas Martin. I've had two phone calls and a personal visit about you boys, particularly Sam and his apparent return from the dead."  
  
Dean's face hardens. "You tell them to shove it?"  
  
"I told them I don't know anything about it, you idjit. I don't want my house burned down by a bunch of angry hunters with a bone to pick. You boys still in Pooles?"  
  
"For the time being, yeah. We were planning on staying at a motel for a few weeks."  
  
"Well, make it longer. I'd say it's going to take more than a few months before this thing blows over. Better hunker down and blend as best you can."  
  
"Okay. Keep us updated."  
  
Bobby grunts and says, "Call me with your address as soon as you get settled. I'm sending something over."  
  
Dean flips the phone shut. "Guess we're sticking around."  
  
"Guess so," Sam says.  
  
"Did you see a real estate place when we drove through town?"  
  
Sam looks surprised. "What do we need a real estate office for?"  
  
"Because if I have to look at this wallpaper for more than a few weeks, I'll shoot myself."  
  
-  
  
It's brisk when Dean goes out for breakfast, enough that he appreciates the steaming coffee and the warm muffins he finds at the bakery down the street. Sam's still asleep when he gets back to the room, although the smell of the coffee wakes him up.  
  
"Which muffin is mine?" Sam asks.  
  
"Neither until you shower."  
  
"Jerk," Sam mutters, but he rolls out of bed and rummages in his duffel before disappearing in the bathroom. Dean waits until the shower starts running before cracking open the door and leaving Sam's dress shirt and tie hanging from the hook.  
  
He's not surprised when, ten minutes later, Sam storms out with a towel around his waist, the shirt and tie held up accusingly. "What is this?"  
  
"They're the kind of clothes people expect you to wear to interviews."  
  
"Why were they on the door?" Sam bites out.  
  
"Because at nine I'm going to drop you off at the school and you're going to go in and ask them for a job."  
  
Sam narrows his eyes, jaw set. "Why?" he asks again, voice lower.  
  
"Because the garage isn't going to be enough for a month or more and we need to find a house."  
  
"We don't need a house, Dean!"  
  
"Sam," Dean says, "the game plan has changed. Hunters are looking for us, and it's not just Gordon, and it's not just Walt and Roy, okay? This isn't a game of house we're playing, this is doing what Dad taught us and keeping our heads down so we can hide in plain sight. We don't do this right, we got no chance. Our cover's got to be bulletproof. As much as I hate to say it, I think we ditch the Impala, we both get jobs, and we find ourselves a permanent address and make nice with the townsfolk. Anybody comes poking around, we need them on our side."  
  
"Fine, but I'm getting a job on my own."  
  
"Fair enough. Just so long as you're doing it because it's something you'd rather do instead of something you think you should do because you're afraid you're going to rip some kid's head off."  
  
Sam's jaw tightens. "This isn't a joke, Dean. I wasn't kidding when I said that."  
  
"And I wasn't kidding when I said it doesn't matter," Dean counters. "Think about it, man. Hell, Heaven, Lucifer, demon blood? I think you've made it clear that none of those things gets a say in what you are. So why let this?"  
  
It's not what John would have expected to break Sam--he always thought it was a strong hand and a loud voice--but Dean's not surprised when Sam glares and shakes his head, emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later with the dress shirt on.  
  
"You better hope somebody's there, 'cause I'm only gonna do this once."  
  
"Attaboy."  
  
-  
  
Dean drops Sam off at the high school and gives Sam a thumbs up through the window after Sam firms his jaw, gets his LSAT scores and Stanford transcript from a lockbox in the trunk, and goes inside. He comes out sheepish but grinning.  
  
"They hire you?"  
  
"Writing tutor." Sam beams. "It's only part-time, mostly one-on-one meetings and grading I can do wherever and send back by email."  
  
"That's awesome."  
  
"No, listen, since it's part-time I asked if somewhere else in town was hiring, maybe a restaurant or something, and the principal said Stairway might."  
  
"Where is this place?"  
  
"That bar on Main. Can't miss it."  
  
The bar is a few shades nicer than the dives they usually frequent, but it's got enough of a rough-edged feel about it for Dean to nod approvingly as they look through the windows. "Bet the jukebox actually works, too."  
  
"One thirty is pushing it a little, don't you think, gentlemen?" The voice comes from behind them and they both whirl guiltily.  
  
"Oh, no, we're, uh... We're not here to drink. We're new in town." Sam sticks a hand out for the woman with bleached hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. A few strands showing hints of gray are loose enough to curl by her face in a zigzag fashion. She brushes them away impatiently, taking Sam's hand in a firm grip.  
  
"That still doesn't explain what you're doing at my bar."  
  
"You're Mrs. Hubert?"  
  
"Joanne, honey. Mrs. Hubert is my mother-in-law."  
  
"Joanne, then," Sam says and gives her his warmest smile, dimples and all. "I'm Sam Campbell. This is my brother, Dean. Principal Henry up at the high school told me you were looking to hire."  
  
"He's not wrong. What kind of practice you got?"  
  
"Busboy, mostly. But I filled in as barback on busy nights or if someone was sick."  
  
Joanne looks him over and then nods decisively. "You look like you can haul a rack of glasses no problem, and that's mostly what we need right now. Not a lot of men around here to do the heavy lifting. We'll start you there and see what you've got behind the bar on a slow night. Wanna check out the place?" She nods her head to the door and Sam looks at Dean and shrugs.  
  
The inside is the same as a thousand other places they've seen. Wood floors scraped by chipped stools, a few scattered tables, a few booths. Pool table in the middle, jukebox on the side, and a wraparound bar shiny enough to slide nickels down. Neon signs are dark in the windows. A short flight of stairs leads to a closed door--probably living quarters or a storage room.  
  
"Nice place," Dean says and Joanne smiles, years falling from her face.  
  
"Stairway is the third love of my life, aside from George and Kara."  
  
"Family?" Sam asks.  
  
"Husband and daughter." Joanne points to a picture tucked in the mirror siding behind the bar where a man in military gear stands next to Joanne and a preteen girl with braces.  
  
"How long have you had the place?"  
  
"Me and George used to run it before Kara was born, and the two of us have kept it up since the military called him out."  
  
"Why Stairway?" Sam steps behind the bar and bends down, checking out drawers and cabinets with a somewhat practiced eye.  
  
An impish gleam lights Joanne's face. "Two hundred years ago, the place above this used to be a brothel. Well, true or not, it was too good to pass up. Its full name is Stairway To Heaven." She winks at Dean. "Free shots to who can guess why."  
  
Dean laughs at that. "I dunno, Joanne, Sammy here is a bit of a prude to be working at a place like this."  
  
She smacks Dean's arm with a dishcloth. "It's a very reputable establishment, I'll have you know. Now, anyways. This old place has character, though, I'll tell you."  
  
"Yeah?" Sam grins.  
  
"You can hear all the stories when you come in on Monday. Three o'clock okay for you? I'll run you through where everything is and get you comfortable with the place."  
  
"Uh, yeah, three's fine on Monday. I might need to switch a little later when I get my schedule from the school. I'm the writing tutor after hours, so I might not be able to come in until four thirty some days."  
  
Joanne waves her hands. "Totally fine. You get your schedule and we'll work out your hours then. I'll save all the heavy lifting for you." She grins and makes shooing motions with her hands. "All right, tour's over. I've got a pot roast to get on. It was good to meet you, though, Sam and Dean. Campbell, right?"  
  
"That's right." Dean shakes her hand with a wink and she shakes her head at him, curly hair flying.  
  
"You're going to be trouble, I can tell."  
  
"No, ma'am," Dean says and Sam rolls his eyes.  
  
"Bye, Joanne, and thanks."  
  
"No problem," Joanne says, holding the door for them. "Glad to have some help."  
  
They turn to head out, but at the last minute Dean turns and says, "Hey, you don't happen to know where there's a realtor nearby, do you?"  
  
"Just down the street, actually, why? You boys haven't found a place yet?"  
  
"Just started looking." Sam cuts a look at Dean. "The only thing we know for sure is it has to be small and cheap."  
  
"Say no more." Joanne puts her hands up. "I've got just the place. Well, I think. I don't know what you boys are going for, but there's a house for rent near the edge of town. It's remote, but it's not a big commute if you're worried about getting to work."  
  
"Yeah, that sounds good actually," Sam says. "Could you show us the place or...?"  
  
"You know, let me get Marge on the phone. Come in again for just a sec."  
  
Joanne picks up the cordless phone behind the bar and punches in a number, holding up a finger while they wait. "Hi, Marge? It's Joanne. Can you come over for a second? I've got some guys here who are interested in the Finley's place. Yeah. Okay, we'll see you in a few." She hangs up and smiles at them. "Marge'll be over soon."  
  
"She's the realtor?" Sam asks.  
  
Joanne laughs. "No, no, honey, Marge works at the church. Shepherd's Hill. She runs the office and organizes events and things. Her husband's the pastor."  
  
"But she's helping the...what'd you say their names were? Finley?" Joanne nods at Dean's question. "She's helping them rent their place?"  
  
"It's a small town. We're good at taking care of our own."  
  
Dean cuts a glance at Sam. "Yeah, we know a bit about that."  
  
A knock comes from the door and an old woman with short, iron-gray hair pinned back at her temple pokes her head in. "Joanne?"  
  
"Come on in, Marge." Joanne slips a hand under the old woman's arm and leads her toward Sam and Dean with a smile. "These are the Campbell brothers. They're moving in."  
  
Marge is small and fragile-looking, but she takes Dean's hand in a steady grip and smiles, pressing the wrinkles near her eyes and cheeks into firmer lines. She insists they follow her to the Finley's right that moment since Carol Finley gave her the key.  
  
It takes all of Dean's patience to follow behind her Oldsmobile at ten miles under the speed limit, but Sam quirks a grin when Marge rolls down her window and waves an ancient hand to indicate the white house they're passing is the Finley's. Then she keeps driving, rounding a gentle, tree-lined bend to stop in front of a little house with a maple taking up a corner of the front yard.  
  
"Man, she wasn't kidding about it being on the edge of town," Dean says as he puts the Impala into park and gets out.  
  
"Yeah, but out of the way isn't such a bad thing. We get suspicious visitors, fewer people are gonna talk."  
  
"Who's going to visit us and look suspicious?"  
  
Sam spreads his arms. "Who _isn't_ going to visit us and look suspicious?"  
  
"Yeah, whatever."  
  
"Besides," Sam continues, "it's not really remote. It's just...removed."  
  
Marge comes up and interrupts their bickering with a hand on each of their arms. "You're going to have to help me over the grass, I'm afraid. The ground's a little uneven and an old woman like me can't be too careful with her hips. The Lord only gave me two." She lets them in the front door and, despite the weathered appearance of the wood, the key fits smoothly. "Ready for the grand tour?"  
  
The house is old with a mismatched floor plan and pipes that groan for a full minute before any water starts running (a trait which Marge assures them will resolve itself once they move in and start running water regularly), but it also has doors tall enough for Sam and solid wood floors. The furnishings are modest and the rooms don't smell funny except for the linen closet, which reeks of lavender. The house is white clapboard and the front door is red and there's a bird's nest in the maple tree, broad flat fields bordered by woods out back, and a stand-alone garage where they can tarp the Impala when the weather gets bad.  
  
It's perfect.  
  
"How much are they asking?" Dean asks when they're walking Marge out. She pats his arm.  
  
"You'll have to talk to Dale and Carol about that, but I'm sure they'll let you boys have it for a song. They've got no use for the place now that their daughter and her husband have moved to Maine."  
  
"Can you give us their number? We wouldn't want to disturb--"  
  
"Nonsense, we'll go there now. They won't mind. Believe me, when you're as old as us, the less time you waste, the better. Come on. Get your big black thing moving and we'll go harry them."  
  
Dean's eyebrows jump comically, drawing a laugh from Sam, but he follows meekly enough, right up to the Finley's front door. Marge knocks while they admire the white two-story, taking in the brick walkway and the monogrammed welcome mat.  
  
A gray-haired man with a wide nose and deep grooves by his mouth answers the door. "Marge. Good to see you." He tucks a pair of reading glasses into his shirt pocket and extends a thick hand, knuckles enlarged by arthritis.  
  
"Dale, these are the Campbells. Sam and Dean." Marge touches their chests lightly with the introduction. "They're interested in the rental."  
  
"Let me get Carol for this, she's the brains of the operation. Come in, come in." Dale ushers them into the entry and leads them down the hall to the dining room. "I think she's upstairs sorting out fabrics. She's thinking about redoing the master bathroom--again."  
  
"It's been a few years, Dale," Marge tuts.  
  
Dale sends a pleading glance to Sam and Dean. "When it comes to interior design, a few years is a lifetime to women."  
  
"Amen," Dean says, earning a look from Marge that puts him in his place. "Sorry."  
  
"Dale? We have company?" a voice calls down the stairs and a woman who might barely come up to Dean's shoulder comes into the room, a swatch of fabric in her hands. "Hello, boys."  
  
Sam puts on his best charm-the-elders smile. "Hi, I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean. Marge just showed us the house--you have a beautiful place."  
  
"Thank you, we think so." Carol smiles brightly. "Should we have a seat in the dining room?" She ushers them into a room with a long table bearing a centerpiece of hydrangeas and flanked by dark wooden chairs.  
  
"We're very reasonable with rates," Dale says once they're all seated. "We don't even really need the place since Libby and Ron moved out."  
  
"Libby's our daughter," Carol explains. She smooths the fabric swatch in her hand. "She and her husband were married a few years ago and they recently moved up north."  
  
"You want your kids to stick around but they've got to go their own way, every one." Dale folds his mouth sternly but his eyes are soft. "Libby always did have a mind of her own."  
  
"They weren't going to stay in that house with a toddler, Dale," Carol reprimands gently. "They didn't have the room, it didn't make sense. That house was never meant for a big family." She turns to the Winchesters. "It was one of those farmhouses when it was first built," she explains. "Different generations added different rooms, a second story, that sort of thing. I kept telling her, the second bedroom would be fine as a nursery but they were using it as an office for Ron and she's right, it wasn't large enough for much more than a desk and a bookcase."  
  
"We don't mind the space," Dean says. "We're kind of used to cramped quarters. It's the, uh, the rent that's the thing. See, we're not planning on being around long, we just have some things that, uh...need to be taken care of. So, as far as rent goes, we're trying to stretch our finances as far as possible. Just in case."  
  
"I see," Dale says. "All right. What do you say to..." He writes a number down on a piece of paper, shows it to Carol, then passes it across the table to Dean. "Per month," he says when Dean looks at it.  
  
Dean exchanges a glance with Sam and crosses out the number, replacing it with another one. "I mean, we're hard up but we're not broke. We have some funds."  
  
Carol stops the slide of the paper across the table with a gentle hand over Dean's. "We want to do this. It's no use to us empty."  
  
"Ma'am--" Sam begins.  
  
"Carol, please." Carol smiles. "Besides, it'll be nice to have neighbors again. I like the quiet out here but sometimes it feels like we're so far from town. Anyhow, Dale's doctor won't let him eat everything I make anymore, so you'll have to let an old woman bother you with pies every once in a while."  
  
That pretty much seals it.  
  
-  
  
They rent the house. Carol says she'll bring over sheets and towels and things the next day, that if there's anything else she forgot--a shower curtain, cooking things--they just have to ask. Dale shakes their hands and offers to help them find jobs.  
  
"We've got work, actually, but thanks."  
  
"Really? Where at?"  
  
"I talked to Rick at--"  
  
"--the garage, right," Dale finishes, leaning around Dean to admire the Impala. "She's a beauty."  
  
"I'll stop by sometime, let you take her for a spin."  
  
Dale chuckles but he doesn't say no. Instead he nods his head at Sam. "What about you?"  
  
"By day he teaches writing at the high school," Dean says, clapping a hand on Sam's back. "And he moonlights as a barback."  
  
"I'm just a writing tutor," Sam amends, face red. "Part time."  
  
"Libby helped out with grading some of the seniors' papers. You know, college applications and things. There's devils and angels, but most of the kids seem pretty even keeled."  
  
"I'll keep a sharp eye out." Sam grins and offers his arm to Marge on their way out.  
  
Carol calls later to see when they'll move in and they tell her the weekend. Dale offers his truck if they need help hauling boxes and Carol says she'll come over and help organize if they want. "Even just your kitchen. Are you going to be able to find everything okay?" She sounds doubtful but Sam assures her they will.  
  
The Finleys don't know it but moving in for the Winchesters will probably take thirty minutes, and half of that time will be spent hiding the guns. It's probably best that they don't come.  
  
"Dinner, though," Carol insists. "You're going to be hungry after all that unpacking and, despite what you might say, man cannot live on pizza alone. I'll bring enchiladas around five."  
  
"I like them," Sam says after hanging up.  
  
"Yeah, they're not half bad," Dean agrees. "What's your guess? Pod people? Pagan gods?"  
  
Sam throws an old T-shirt at Dean. "Neither. They're just _people_."  
  
"They offered to help us move."  
  
"They're nice. Carol said she's going to bring us enchiladas."  
  
"We're going to have to learn to shop." Dean grimaces.  
  
"And cook," Sam adds.  
  
"Hey, I cook!"  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Real food, not beanie weenies or mac and cheese."  
  
"Better open a tab at the Piggly Wiggly, then."  
  
"Shut up, they don't have those."  
  
"They so do."


	4. Chapter 4

They make it through the first few days at the rental without burning it down or breaking anything beyond repair. Dean chalks that up as a win. Sam has a meeting with the school board that Saturday to get his schedule figured out and receive the list of students he'll be mentoring. He calls Joanne at Stairway and tells her when he's available and she says she's got a white apron all ready for him.  
  
Dean pops the hood to change the Impala's oil and give her a good once-over before driving her into the garage and pulling a tarp over her. Dean's boss said he had an old truck he'd sell to Dean cheap. It cuts their savings in half but the Impala's too conspicuous to someone poking around for information.  
  
Monday morning dawns and Sam's got a bowl of Lucky Charms out for Dean and waves him out the door, even though his eyes are slits in his face and his hair looks like a rat nested in it. "Have a good day at work, honey," he mumbles. Dean curses him for not having to work until that afternoon but it's half-hearted and doesn't stop him from grinning on the way to the garage.  
  
Rick starts him out easy. The burly man leads Dean from the office to the garage where he's introduced to "the guys" as Rick calls them, each raising a hand or nodding when Rick says his name.  
  
"You know how to run the lifts?"  
  
Dean shrugs. "Show me once, I think I can handle it."  
  
Rick claps him on the shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Grant? Get Cary from the back and have him give Dean a tour. Tools, equipment, stuff like that. And the man needs coveralls."  
  
"Coveralls," Dean mutters and laughs a little to himself, following Cary to the back where he can get his uniform.  
  
"Huh?" Cary asks.  
  
"Nothing." Dean shakes his head, still chuckling. _Never had to wear a uniform for something that I actually did before_ , he could say but there's no point. None of the guys here would get it, and if he wanted to keep the job he should definitely keep quiet about everything he and Sam have done.  
  
"C'mon, I'll show you where you can stow your stuff," Cary says and Dean follows.  
  
He gets home a little after five and nearly has a heart attack when he searches the house and nobody's home. He has his phone out and is about to call Sam when he finds the note on the front door that reads, _Quit panicking. Working at Stairway. Meet me there and I might not burn your burger_ in Sam's messy scrawl. He gives himself a minute to curse whoever raised the darn kid and then gets back in the Impala to drive into town.  
  
Stairway isn't crowded but there's a decent-sized gathering for a Monday night, a combination of football and small town curiosity. Not a few girls crowd the stools and only snatches of the jukebox can be heard over the crack of the pool table and the sound of the game on the TV. It's not hard to find Sam, even through the smoky haze lit by neon. He's half a head taller than anyone else in the room and he's putting his size to good use, gathering mugs and wiping tables with the same dexterous grace with which he loads a gun. He's got the white apron Joanne promised tied around his waist and he keeps wiping his hands on it after swiping at his forehead. When he sees Dean, he grins and wends his way through the crowd.  
  
"Find my note?"  
  
"You know, cell phones work too. And they're more reliable. And convenient."  
  
"If I didn't leave you a note every once in a while, you'd forget how to read," Sam volleys back. He clears the bar in front of Dean, setting the glasses in the plastic bin. "Want to get the door there?"  
  
Dean glances behind him. "It's shut."  
  
"Cross breeze," Sam says, already carting the bin away to the kitchen. "I'm really hot."  
  
"You can say that again," someone hollers from the back and the hum in the room rises in laughter until someone's team scores a touchdown and the room divides into cheers and groans.  
  
Dean grins and settles himself on a stool. Joanne bustles by, pad of paper in hand. "You want anything, sweetie?"  
  
"For my brother to stop being so popular around here."  
  
Joanne chuckles. "Nah, he's good for business."  
  
"Just a burger, then."  
  
She nods and marks it down on her pad. Sam comes by a little while later with two burgers and a basket of fries, which he plunks down on the bar between them. He takes a bite of his burger and says with his mouth full, "Wanna drink?"  
  
"Hit me."  
  
Sam hops up and goes behind the bar, sets two beers on the counter and heads back around again. "How was the garage?"  
  
"Fine. Good, actually. The guys are cool. Rick's a good guy."  
  
Sam nods and grunts, stuffing in a mouthful of fries.  
  
"Dude, I have to wear coveralls."  
  
Sam's eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up, and a dimple pops in one cheek. "S'rsly?"  
  
"Yeah. How's this been?" Dean gestures at the busy room.  
  
"Good. Busy." Sam swallows. "Joanne says it's not usually so bad. Pretty easy, falling back into it, y'know?"  
  
"You look official." Dean tugs at the white apron tied around Sam's waist.  
  
"My suit's all crumpled in the back."  
  
"Your suit--oh. You had your parent-teacher whatever today."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Just meeting the teachers, getting my schedule, seeing the students. First session's on Wednesday."  
  
Dean hesitates, then dives in. "Everything go okay?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I mean..." He shifts a little on his stool, lowering his voice so Sam has to learn forward to hear over the hubbub. "With your feelings. Any...whatever?"  
  
Sam's face goes solemn. "Once. About the principal."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Nothing big. He's not completely happy. My guess is he wants to move next year."  
  
"No, I mean you. You were fine? No headache, no spacing out?"  
  
"Nope." Sam looks almost proud and Dean lets out a breath.  
  
"Good. See? We've got this. Reading people? We can deal. Hey. Vegas."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and shoves in another handful of fries, looking affronted when Dean slaps his hand.  
  
"You're going to choke. Why don't you slow down, quit making these people think we're savages or something, huh?"  
  
"Can't." Dean lifts his eyebrows and Sam swallows thickly. "Got fifteen minutes."  
  
"Fifteen, that's it?"  
  
"Well, thirty, but it's busy. They could use the help."  
  
"All right, get back in there."  
  
Sam takes a swig of his beer, manfully sticking his tongue out at Dean's expression of pleased surprise, then takes his basket and mug back to the kitchen. A few seconds later, Dean can hear him fumbling in Spanish to the cook and loading the dishwasher with glasses.  
  
Okay. First day. Maybe they can make it after all.  
  
-  
  
It's surreal, for the first couple of weeks. They've gone under cover before, but driving the pick-up and signing his name _Dean Campbell_ takes some getting used to. For one thing, they completely forget about the mail, until Sam dashes out like the mailbox is on fire, triumphantly brandishing a stack of junk mail and a lumpy package when he returns.  
  
"Got something from Bobby."  
  
"Awesome, let me see." Dean gestures for the package and--of course--Sam raises an eyebrow and rips it open himself, only to stop stock-still.  
  
"Oh my god."  
  
"What is it?" Dean gets up from the couch and snatches the package from Sam's hand, pulling out a roll of bills. "Holy crap."  
  
He pulls out his cell phone and punches in Bobby's number, putting him on speaker when he picks up.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Bobby, where'd you get this?" Dean says.  
  
"Nice to hear from you too," Bobby says dryly. "I take it you got my package."  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"Don't take that tone with me. What'd you think I did, robbed a bank? I saved it, you idjits."  
  
"Bobby." Sam's voice is as raw as Dean feels. "This is... You need this. If something happens, or... We can't--"  
  
"You can and you will. Shut up and put it somewhere safe before I come down there and make you," Bobby says firmly.  
  
"Bobby, we're fine. Honest. We've both got jobs, we got good rent on a place, we're fine."  
  
"Your idea of fine and normal folk's idea of fine are radically different. It gets harder to live by the skin of your teeth when you've got more to take care of than a brother and a car. Do you have an emergency fund?"  
  
"We don't--" Dean starts but Bobby cuts him off.  
  
"You do, Dean. Besides, I've been saving it for you boys, specifically. It's...well, I guess it's like a hunter's college fund. You save it for your kids and you hope one day they have the good sense to need it." At their silence, he clarifies, "It's a retirement fund."  
  
Dean clears his throat and Sam turns away to drag a hand down his face. "Thanks," Dean gets out and hands the phone to Sam. Sam talks on the phone in a quiet murmur as Dean goes upstairs and stands in the lone bedroom, two beds pressed to either side of the room, the window between. A house. They have a house.  
  
He never thought they'd live to see the day.  
  
-  
  
Wrapping themselves in small town life comes easy after that. Sam decides that if they're settling in with a civilian cover, they're going to do it right, which apparently means that Sam is going head-to-head with their oven in an attempt to learn how to cook. This also means that there are plenty of late-night food runs when whatever Sam makes comes out charred. Beth at the diner starts leaving the week's special in a to-go box on the counter on Sam's night off. On weekends, Sam brings home donuts so often that Mrs. Kim has their favorites ready in a pink box on the counter. Dean takes to meeting Sam at Stairway after his shift at the garage, sometimes bringing along a couple of the guys to shoot a game of pool until Sam gets off at midnight.  
  
It'd be picture-perfect but for the powers that brought their hunting careers to a screeching halt in the first place. Sam's distractions seem to be easily handled once life-or-death situations are off the market, but they're far from gone. Dean is in the middle of watching a football game and Sam has taken over the kitchen counter with the papers he needs to finish editing before Monday, sending sour looks at Dean through the doorway whenever Dean yells too loud over an incorrect call. Then someone scores a touchdown and Dean's shout is followed closely by the sound of something breaking.  
  
"Sam?" Dean calls and Sam appears in the doorway, holding two halves of a dish.  
  
"Newest development?" Sam says. "Telekinesis is a go."  
  
"Duly noted."  
  
"And unless you want to explain to Carol what happened to all her dishes, would you _please_ try to keep it down?"  
  
-  
  
Sam's visions don't go away, but the headaches that come with them do. They fall into a rhythm of dealing with them, Sam scribbling down whatever he sees, then passing the information to Bobby, telling him about the vampires in Duluth or the crocotta in Bar Harbor. Bobby takes Sam's developing abilities in stride, as always, but he tells Sam to keep an eye on them just the same and to take care of himself.  
  
Which Sam does, for the most part. In the middle of the month, though, Sam gets sick. It starts out as a weak cough that he buries in his arm during his shift at Stairway. He's slower with getting drinks up and doesn't keep up the casual repartee that keeps the bar so busy the nights Sam works. Dean comes in and salutes him with a beer at his usual corner of the bar but makes note of the way Sam's distracted. Knowing things or the seeing-and-hearing things angle, he doesn't know which, but one of them is keeping Sam from being at the top of his game.  
  
After a few minutes of observing, Dean catches Sam by the arm as he passes. "Joanne let you out here without a hazmat suit on? Is that sanitary?"  
  
"Ha," Sam says, voice husked out. "I'm fine."  
  
"You sure? 'Cause you're looking a little spacey there, bro." He squeezes Sam's arm and leans in a little, and Sam wilts.  
  
"Distracted," Sam says lowly. "I keep seeing things."  
  
"Flashes of light?"  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Shapes." A smile tugs his mouth. "I could have sworn I saw a pigeon fly in here earlier this evening."  
  
Dean grins a little too. "You'll let me know if you need me to call in and cancel your tutoring gig tomorrow, right?"  
  
"I'm fine." Sam gives him a short nod-- _that's that_ \--and moves back into the crowd, collecting used dishes from the high tables.  
  
-  
  
The next evening Dean's installing spark plugs in a Camry and almost misses his cell ringing under the blare of the radio. The display says that he's missed a call by the time he fishes the phone out of his pocket but it's ringing again before he has the chance to see who it was.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Dean," Joanne says, relief in her voice. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."  
  
Dean hits the power on the radio. "What's going on?"  
  
"Can you come down to Stairway?"  
  
He's striding toward the back room by the time Joanne finishes her sentence. "What's wrong? Is it Sam?"  
  
"He had a little incident."  
  
The hesitation spurs him on faster. Dean's out of his coveralls and grabbing his things from his locker at a jog. He waves a hand to catch Rick's attention at his chair in the office and mouths _Sam_ , hooking a thumb toward the door. Rick nods, his wide face concerned.  
  
"He's fine. He's doing okay," Joanne says. There's a pause with some mumbling on the other end. "Abby's with him right now and I've closed the bar down. I'm just going to step out a minute."  
  
Another pause during which Dean jams the keys into the truck's ignition, gassing the engine to help it catch quicker. He palms the steering wheel with one hand, barely looking at the road before pulling out.  
  
"Okay, I'm outside. I didn't want to upset--"  
  
"Talk to me, Joanne, and cut the crap."  
  
To her credit, she's unfazed by Dean's sharpness. "Sam had a seizure."  
  
Dean's hand tightens convulsively on the phone.  
  
"We're still trying to piece together what happened. I think he was carrying a tray of glasses to the kitchen and you know how they can just come out of nowhere, seizures. One minute he was fine, the next he was on the floor. It didn't last long, a minute or two at most, but with all the glass..."  
  
"Is he hurt?" Dean asks, his voice hoarse.  
  
"He's cut up some," Joanne says gently. "He rolled on his side, during, but we picked out what we could see. You'll probably want to have him shower when he gets home, see if you can't flush out any splinters."  
  
"Does he know where he is?"  
  
"He knows, he's fully aware, not foggy in the least. It really was just a mild seizure, Dean. Bad luck with the glasses but these kinds of things happen."  
  
Dean curses at a stoplight and considers running it, changing his mind at the disapproving look Sam would give. "Thanks, Joanne. Keep him talking, okay?"  
  
"Sure thing, hon."  
  
"And tell him not to move. He'll try, but keep him still 'til I get there."  
  
"Don't worry, we've got it covered. Don't kill yourself getting yourself here."  
  
Dean scoffs at that. "I'll be there in three."  
  
-  
  
He doesn't know what he expected when he gets to Stairway but it's not for the place to be full like nearly every other night. If he didn't catch the Closed sign outside and that there's no one behind the bar, he might not even know that something was wrong. Then a tall redhead pushes through the swinging door, catches sight of him, and threads her way through the tables.  
  
"I didn't think he meant it when he said _leather and an angry face_. He's in the back. Watch the glass."  
  
Dean doesn't do more than nod his thanks and wends his way to the back. He pushes open the swinging door and there's Sam sprawled on his side on the floor in the cramped place between the dishwasher and the wall, Joanne kneeling by his head and the cook, Javier, hovering nearby, muttering in Spanish.  
  
"Look who's here," Joanne says and Sam shifts on the floor.  
  
"That my bossy big brother?"  
  
"Who told you you're allowed to party without me?" Dean says. "I like the glass. Nice touch."  
  
"Yeah, well, go big or go home." Sam grins.  
  
Dean crouches next to Sam's feet, puts a careful hand on Sam's leg. "Lucky you're not fired for laying down on the job."  
  
"Yeah, some nut job called ahead and said I wasn't allowed to move." Sam rolls his eyes, watching Dean watching him. Dean's not dumb. He gets the message: _I'm okay. No big deal._  
  
"Huh. Weird." The thing is, Dean's had a lot of practice reading his brother and what he sees is Sam shaken, Sam putting on a brave front, Sam _seizing_.  
  
Sam starts to push himself up and Dean gets a hand on his bicep, helps pull him unsteadily to his feet. A few pieces of glass still cling to the back of Sam's shirt. His arms are nicked and there's a cut on his cheekbone that looks like it'll need butterfly bandages. It's not the worst they've had, Dean has to remind himself. In fact, it's pretty damn tame. Doesn't take away the fear in his gut, though.  
  
"You got everything, sweetie?" Joanne asks. Javier slips behind her to go back into the main room, probably to manage the bar until Joanne gets there.  
  
"Yeah, thanks." Sam brushes himself off a little, leaning into Dean's hand on his back. "My stuff's under the bar."  
  
Dean gives Joanne a pained smile. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him for me."  
  
"He was great. Handled yourself real well, Sam."  
  
Sam nods uncomfortably. "Thanks."  
  
"I had a cousin with epilepsy. I know it's tough, honey."  
  
Sam ignores her sympathy, instead gesturing at the glass on the floor. "Sorry about all this."  
  
"Oh." She waves her hands. "Don't worry yourself a bit, sweetie. Glasses are a dime a dozen. I'm just glad you're okay."  
  
"Take it out of my pay," Sam insists.  
  
"I'm not going to do that, Sam," Joanne says, mouth a firm line. Her face softens and she glances between them as she says, "I'd give anything to just have this blow over, but... Sam, honey, I really do think you ought to think about whether you're doing the best thing for yourself by working here."  
  
"I'm fine. I appreciate the concern, but really--I'm fine. This was a fluke thing."  
  
"Are you on medication, Sam?" Joanne asks with the look of someone who has asked the same thing a dozen times before.  
  
"We're looking into it."  
  
"Sam, until you get this settled, I think you need to put yourself in environments where you're not going to get hurt."  
  
Sam snorts a laugh. "We're actually kind of doing that."  
  
"You want him to quit?" Dean asks.  
  
"If it's a liability thing--"  
  
"It's not," Joanne assures him. "It's a safety thing."  
  
"Joanne, trust me, I can manage it." Sam shares a glance with Dean. "We'll figure something out, talk to my doctor again." Dean's face freezes at that, a rictus of something pleasant and assuring. "I really need this job."  
  
Joanne takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Fine. But if it gets worse, Sam, I have to let you go. You know that."  
  
"It won't get worse," Sam assures her, eyes sincere above the cut on his face. Dean doesn't know what his own face looks like, can hardly think as they duck out of the building, Sam sliding behind the bar to get his messenger bag, waving goodbye to the girl with red hair.  
  
They get in the car and pull away, sitting in silence until they get past the grocery store. Then Dean asks, "How did she know about your head thing?"  
  
"She caught me spacing out a couple times." Then, "It was pretty bad, once."  
  
Dean nearly runs the stoplight. "You never told me. Did you tell me?"  
  
"It wasn't a big deal, there was nothing you could do. And it was fine--I was distracted, moving orders slower. I took my break early. It passed."  
  
"She said it like it happens a lot," Dean presses. "You told her you had a doctor."  
  
"It happens the nights it gets busy." Sam thumps his head softly against the window, trying to settle in and get comfortable against the glass, like they're driving across state lines instead of just around the corner. "I see stuff, sometimes I forget things, dumb things, like where I put the can-opener. It's not a big deal. I can handle it. I've gotten better at handling it."  
  
"It's busy almost every night, Sam." Dean looks over at Sam--who doesn't say anything. "Crap."  
  
"It's not a big deal," Sam repeats.  
  
"It is a big deal," Dean says, cutting incredulous glances at Sam as the light turns green. "Hey, it's not even happening to me and I'm man enough to admit that I'm a little freaked."  
  
"I had a seizure," Sam says, jaw stiff. "People have the occasional seizure."  
  
"People do," Dean agrees after a moment. "But they shouldn't have to." He pulls down their street, taking it slow. Usually they'd be in Stairway, Sam settling in to his shift, Dean trying to get Javier to put jalapeños on his burger. Instead, they're dealing with this. "We need to talk to Bobby about this, man."  
  
"I'm sick. Cut me some slack."  
  
"You shouldn't be having a seizure on the floor because you're sick, Sam. And forgetting things? That's bad news."  
  
"It might be just a one-time deal."  
  
"Sam--"  
  
"What do you want me to do about it?" Sam explodes. "Huh? I can't fix this!"  
  
"Then we need to find somebody who can. We go to someone who knows this stuff, we dig around, have Bobby pull some strings." Sam shakes his head. "Sam, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're barely treading water here."  
  
"And I don't know if _you've_ noticed but we're undercover. That means we keep our heads down and don't ask around for people who might know something about supernatural powers."  
  
"Sam, come on, listen to yourself. This isn't the minor leagues here, we're talking about _seizures_."  
  
"No."  
  
"We'll be careful."  
  
"Dean, no--"  
  
"Sam, this is not up for debate."  
  
"Well, it should be! I'm the one all the freaky is happening to, I get to decide whether I want to risk ourselves to go out and have some crazy poking around at me like I'm a psychic anomaly."  
  
"So our other option is to, what, sit around and hope it goes away?"  
  
Dean swings into their driveway and Sam takes a breath, glaring at the garage door. Finally he says, "Who would we even go to? I've tried praying to Cas, the bastard won't listen to me, or if he does he doesn't care. If Bobby asks around he's going to have hunters all over him. Who else are we going to call?"  
  
"Missouri."  
  
"Missouri?" Sam echoes. "From Lawrence?"  
  
"She's a psychic." Dean shrugs. "I figure she'd know something about this stuff. Plus, you trust her. She helped us out before."  
  
Sam chews his lip, still staring at the garage door. Finally he folds, shoulders slumping. "Okay. But only if it doesn't get better."  
  
"It's not getting better, Sam."  
  
"It's not out of control yet. I can handle it."  
  
"You dropped a bunch of glasses and woke up on the floor. I don't care how strong you are, you can't help that stuff."  
  
"Dean," Sam's face is fierce, "let's give it a few more days, all right? Let's just give it some time. I was sick, I wasn't ready, I'll kick this cold and everything should go back to normal."  
  
Dean hangs his wrists on the steering wheel, turning off the truck and listening to the engine click in the cool air. Sam has jammed his hands into his jacket pockets but Dean's sure they're balled into fists. "'Kay," he says, "fine." Neither of them makes a move to get out of the truck and eventually Dean says, "I'm sorry you had such a crappy day. But hey, at least you still have your job, right?"  
  
Sam unfolds a little. "Yeah. I thought she was going to fire me. She probably should have. I wasn't really winning gold medals over there."  
  
"Yeah, well, everyone thinks you're great. I mean, no one will call you Sam because they'll be calling you Timber, but hey, at least you'll be memorable."  
  
Sam's small smile releases the last knot in Dean's stomach. He turns his attention to the fields and the dark sky, smoke from the Finley's house a smudge above the trees. "Looks like rain."  
  
-  
  
They wait. It doesn't get better.  
  
Dean's turning the calendar from September to October and grimacing at the overly bright farm scene depicted when Sam shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair flipping in every direction.  
  
"Morning."  
  
Sam grunts and fumbles in the fridge.  
  
"Orange juice is by the sink."  
  
Sam grunts again and drags out a glass.  
  
"Carol called this morning. She's worried about Dale," Dean offers, putting his bowl in the sink. "I guess he had a cold last week and she was telling me how he's got a weak heart or something and she--"  
  
"I know," Sam says, sliding some toast on a plate and hunching over the counter to eat. "He's too stubborn to take his meds. Says it's nothing. She hates it when he does jobs around the house because she worries one of these days he's going to have a heart attack out in the garden and she won't know."  
  
Dean stares. "Did you have a vision?"  
  
Sam doesn't say anything, just looks back at him and then bends his head over his breakfast, dark hair obscuring his face.  
  
"You know more," Dean says. "Than before. You only got...feelings, pieces of information. You were just reading auras, right?"  
  
"Right. Just colors," Sam affirms quietly.  
  
Dean reaches for a glass from above the sink, needing something to wet his dry throat.  
  
And so it goes.  
  
When Dean wakes up the next morning, he finds Sam looking blankly at the coffee maker. "Push the button," he grunts, then goes upstairs to get dressed. Sam's still standing in front of the coffee maker when he comes back down, though, so he elbows his brother out of the way and punches the button, confused when ten minutes later nothing's happened. A quick check reveals that the tank had no water in it and Sam had spooned coffee grinds nearly to the top of the filter. "Holy crap, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean grouses, pouring half the grinds into the jar and filling the tank. He hits the button and a few seconds later comes the satisfying growl of the water heating.  
  
Sam comes back downstairs after his shower, hair dampening the collar of his sweatshirt, and he takes in Dean's mug with a quick smile. "Oh good, coffee."  
  
Dean's half-formed joke dies on his lips. "You don't remember."  
  
Sam sobers just as quickly. "What?"  
  
"You already... You were trying to make the coffee just a few minutes ago."  
  
"Huh," Sam says, shrugging and stepping forward to pour himself a cup, but his hands aren't as steady around the mug as they usually are.  
  
He has his usual shift at Stairway that night and Dean sets himself up in the back corner with a pack of cards to play a game of solitaire and keep a surreptitious eye on Sam. Now that Joanne mentioned it, Dean notices the way Sam's eyes sometimes trace things in the air the way he used to when he was still getting used to his powers. He has tiny tells, ones that most people wouldn't pick up on. The first half of the night goes easily, all things told, Sam making jokes and joining Dean for a game of war when the flow of patrons slows to a crawl.  
  
Sam is back behind the bar, pulling a beer, and Dean can see the minute he forgets. Wide eyes, sharp intake of breath, mouth impassive as he takes in his surroundings, doing his best to keep a straight face. He sets a glass mug topped with foam on the bar with steady hands, nods at the man he's serving, and turns to arrange the glasses. When he looks up again, Dean can tell, his memory is all back, like it was never gone in the first place.  
  
Dean doesn't know what to make of that.  
  
He watches Sam more closely after that. It could be aftereffects from the seizure or maybe just bad luck, but it happens more often than Dean would like, the moments when Sam's checked out growing longer until Dean realizes they're dealing with thirty-second spans where Sam loses track of reality, strong enough that he can't pull himself out of the haze to remember where he is or what he's doing, long enough for him to be silently panicking. Twenty-seven years of juggling cover stories and alternate identities has given Sam a pretty fair poker face and Dean figures most people watching wouldn't pick up on the fact that a couple times a week Sam, for half a minute, is frozen at the bar mechanically wiping glasses without the faintest clue where he is.  
  
Dean waits out the week, then tosses Sam's duffel bag on his bed. "We're going. Call Joanne and the school, tell 'em you'll be gone all weekend."  
  
It doesn't make Dean feel any better that Sam puts away the papers he'd been grading and packs without argument.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes two days to get to Lawrence and another half a day to track down Missouri's house, the address pieced together from information in John's journal and their own memories. The woman who opens the door, though, is blond-haired and has a toddler on her hip.  
  
"Missouri Moseley?" she says. "Yeah, I think that was who we bought the house from. I don't know where she moved, though; our realtor handled the sale for us."  
  
"Thanks anyway," Dean says. He jogs to the truck, shooting Sam a glare when he takes his sweet time getting in. "What's the holdup?"  
  
"I think I know how we can find her."  
  
"Oh good, an option that doesn't involve searching the telephone book."  
  
"I think I might be able to sense her," Sam continues. "Track her aura or whatever."  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows. "How far does that go?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "If she's in town, I'll know."  
  
Dean stares at him a minute. "Well, then, fire it up, Watson."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and then closes them, settling in his seat and tipping his head back on the headrest. A minute later, his eyes flutter open and he mumbles, "Turn left on Pine."  
  
Dean shifts the truck into drive and follows Sam's directions, occasionally casting his brother worried looks. Sam sits up but his eyes remain half-lidded and there's a delay between words, like it takes concentration to push them out. They're clear on the other side of town when Sam pulls in a deep breath and sits up all the way, pointing at a house near the end of the street.  
  
"That one. With the green front door."  
  
This time when they walk up to the house, the door opens before they reach it and Missouri is standing there with her hands on her hips. "Boy, quit broadcasting to every psychic in kingdom come. Dean, shut your mouth. You look like your poor daddy didn't teach you nothing."  
  
-  
  
Missouri is exactly as they remember her, if a little grayer, a little more stooped. Age hasn't dampened any of her fire, though. She lets them in, pronounces them starving, and scoops up bowls of navy bean soup with enough force that Dean sits where she tells him without a peep and is careful not to spill anything on her tablecloth.  
  
When they're done eating, she says, "Now wait here a minute and don't say a word. I know a bit about what it is you came here for, but I want to look at you first. Lord knows the second you say something I'm gonna have a heap of trouble to think about every waking minute you're here." She takes her time, looking them up and down, eyes lingering on their faces. "You boys sure grew up," she concludes. "I remember your daddy worrying about not bringing you into his fight, and now look at you. Looks like you've had your own battles to get through. You still hunting?"  
  
"We're taking a temporary leave of absence," Sam says.  
  
"But you're not out of quite yet, are you?" Missouri surmises. "Funny how the supernatural has a way of latching on and not letting go. Once you see it, you can't ignore it, even if you want to. All right." She folds her hands in front of her on the table. "Tell me your story."  
  
"How much have you heard?"  
  
"Enough to know that more than half of it isn't true. You boys got enough legend swirled up around you both I'm surprised you ain't walking around with wings." She laughs, then sobers. "Things have been restless this past few years. Even for a psychic, the future hasn't been easy to read. Things have been stirring that no one wants to wrestle with. I know the Devil's been walking free and clear and making a mess out of things. And I know what you both did to put him back where he belongs."  
  
Sam shifts in his chair. "You saw me say yes?" he asks.  
  
Missouri nods, her face creasing. "Gave me nightmares for months. I'm so sorry, Sam."  
  
"Did you know that the angels raised him from Hell?" Dean asks.  
  
"I heard rumors, but I wasn't going to believe them until I saw with my own two eyes." She looks at Sam. "So, Sam. It's not everyone who has Heaven and Hell fighting over them."  
  
Sam smiles. "Just lucky, I guess."  
  
"And you're here because your powers are back," Missouri says. Dean stiffens and Missouri gives him a look. "Boy, you came to a psychic for help. What do you expect?" Dean raises his eyebrows and doesn't make an answer. Missouri flaps a hand at him and focuses on Sam. "All right," she says, "let's see what's going on." She gestures for Sam to lean forward. Sam closes his eyes as her worn fingers trace gently over his face, settling with her thumbs pressed against his eyebrows and her ring fingers touching his temples. Her eyes close and she frowns. "I'm sorry about your seizure, honey."  
  
Dean sits up. "Do you know what caused it?"  
  
She shakes her head. "It's not something I can pin down so easily. Usually seizures happen when a psychic gets ahead of himself and pushes his abilities too far. Your abilities though..." Missouri's eyes flutter open and she looks at Sam with her forehead creased before closing her eyes again and tightening her fingers. "I knew something was coming the minute you hit town but I didn't know it was you until I opened my door. I didn't recognize the way you felt. Your powers are different than they were before." She takes her hands from Sam's face and leans back.  
  
"Good different or bad different?" Dean asks.  
  
"I would say good but they're strong, too strong. You only had the one seizure? I'm surprised the side effects haven't been worse. That much power isn't meant to be bound like it is."  
  
"They're the same powers he had before," Dean says. "The same psychic whatever."  
  
"No, they're different," Missouri says, shaking her head. "They've been cleansed."  
  
"You say that like it's a bad thing."  
  
"Not bad, just... Cleansing is a tricky business. If it's not done right, it's easy to break the lock that keeps whatever it is you're cleansing contained."  
  
"What would that do?" Dean asks. "Breaking the lock."  
  
"It would mess with the powers' original state. Most cleansings are done with herbs or maybe a ritual to negate whatever power has taken hold, like getting rid of a poltergeist. In most cases, cleansing energy means canceling it out. I've never seen a cleansing strong enough to reverse the nature of the power and make it positive."  
  
"And that's what happened to me," Sam says.  
  
Missouri nods. "That's why you're struggling with controlling them. The things you can do aren't things that even the most sensitive psychics could manage. Even experienced psychics can only do one or two things: see the future, read cards, move things with their minds. You've got more than a few tricks up your sleeve, Sam. The kind of power that fuels abilities like that tends to be all-consuming. Usually those kinds of gifts are wielded by something powerful; they're more than a human could control."  
  
"I could control them in the beginning. The visions not so much, but everything else... I used to have a better handle on them, but lately they haven't been as easy to turn on and off."  
  
"Most people with that kind of power riding around in their body would've been burned up from the inside out almost from the moment they got it." Missouri hesitates, then takes Sam's hand in hers. "You've always been destined for a greater purpose, Sam. What that demon did when he came to your crib was a horrible, horrible thing, but I can't say that he didn't know what he was about. The ability to wield this kind of power is in your blood."  
  
"But the powers--Heaven cleansed them," Sam sputters. "He was a demon. He fed me demon blood."  
  
"Angels and demons are two sides of the same coin," Missouri says gently. "Azazel's general, Lucifer's vessel. And now the powers have been cleansed and you're supposed to unite Heaven's legions."  
  
"So what's the catch?" Dean says. "If Sam's supposed to be able to handle them, then why the seizure? Why the spacing out and forgetting things?"  
  
Missouri smooths the tablecloth in front of her with wrinkled hands, then folds them. "I might be wrong," she begins. "It's been a long time since I've done more than palm readings and cleansing rituals. A long time since I've had to think about what brought John Winchester to me in the first place. These powers, Sam, were always given to you with a purpose. The demon that killed your mother wanted you to follow in its footsteps, so it gave you the powers and made them so there would be a change in you, something that would make you more than human but less than demon. Now, though, Heaven cleansed them and broke the lock that kept them manageable.  
  
"The side effects aren't from using your powers, Sam. They're from resisting them. You strengthened your powers before by drinking demon blood and as your body changed they grew. These are going to need a lot more than that. These ones want to change you from the inside out to get you ready, whether you want to or not. There has to be a change, a chance for the power to make itself at home in the body. What you're experiencing are the consequences of the powers trying to mold you into something that can do all the things they'll need to do to handle everything the powers have to offer."  
  
"So how do we stop it?" Dean asks.  
  
"If he knew when he was working them--"  
  
"But he doesn't," Dean says. "Hell, he can just be eating dinner and all of a sudden he's hallucinating shooting stars."  
  
"He's not hallucinating," Missouri corrects, "he's seeing through. Most folks don't like to think of reality as having layers; they like what's tangible, things they can put their hands on. What they don't realize is that we're all just folks in a dark room. There's just a few of us who have flashlights. We see things they can't."  
  
"Which was fine when Sam's powers weren't trying to eat him alive, but we need to find a way to make them back off. There's got to be something else. Another option, something to _do_ besides let them just take over."  
  
"I wish I could help you. The only advice I can give you is to not use them, control them as much as you can, and see if that helps. Find something that dulls them, that'll neutralize them, and they won't be as strong." A pained look crosses Missouri's lined face. "Resisting like that will help you hold off the change, but it's anyone's guess how long."  
  
Missouri starts to get up but Dean raises his hands. "Whoa, whoa, hold on a second. That's great advice and all but we need a better game plan than that. Tell me we've got a better plan."  
  
"I don't have anything to help you." Missouri gets up and starts clearing away their bowls. "I wish I had better news but I don't."  
  
"That's it? No spells, no exercises, nothing? It's not something we can just ignore, Sam goes to work and the next call I get is that he's on the floor! They're not getting more manageable, they're getting worse!"  
  
Missouri dumps the bowls in the sink with a clatter and turns to face them with her hands on her hips. "And they'll continue to get worse until Sam accepts the change."  
  
"You keep talking about a change like Sam's going to have supersonic hearing after all this is over or grow an extra limb--"  
  
"I mean that your brother is going to lose his mind."  
  
Sam turns to face her. "You mean I'm going to go crazy?"  
  
"I mean _lose your mind_. I told you before, it's in your blood, Sam. You have two sides of yourself fighting for control now. As the angelic side keeps knocking around in you, trying to make itself at home, it weakens your body and gets its claws in your mind. Now, you might be thinking you won't say yes to it, you'll resist the change to be whatever it is these powers are gonna make you out to be, but that's a losing way of thinking. You don't realize it now, but a little ways down the road you'll find that things happen that you didn't think you wished for, didn't think of consciously. You won't realize you're doing it, but the world will bend to you without your conscious thought. I mean, if you're not strong enough, you'll lose your mind to them and they'll make the choice to change for you."  
  
Missouri turns back to the sink and turns the water on and just lets it run. There's a creak as Sam shifts in his chair, then a loud scrape as Dean shoves back from the table and strides down the hallway. The front door slams behind him.  
  
"Your brother," Missouri says heavily, "he is going to run himself ragged over this."  
  
Sam's short laugh is unexpected, but when she turns around his face is serious. "Yeah," is all he says.  
  
She turns off the water and wipes her hands on a dishtowel, putting on composure like a coat. "He's probably out there calling Bobby Singer up," she says briskly, "trying to see what he knows."  
  
"I don't think so," Sam says. "I think he might be calling someone else."  
  
-  
  
Dean gets in the truck and puts his keys into the ignition, even though he's not going anywhere. He grips the steering wheel between two hands and says, "Castiel, you son of a bitch, so help me." There's no answer, no whispering wind, no grave voice with answers or excuses. "So help me, Cas," Dean starts again but the words die in his throat. "Help me," is what comes out instead and the sound of that pitiful plea bows Dean's head against the steering wheel.  
  
-  
  
Dusk has fallen by the time he gets out of the truck and follows the walkway to the front door again. The street is peaceful, quiet like their own street would be, and when Dean opens the door the illusion of peace is shattered. The sound of raised voices comes from the kitchen followed by the sound of pans crashing. He rounds the corner and barks, "Sam!"  
  
Spaghetti sauce pops and sizzles on the stove behind Sam--who is holding a knife and feeling blindly to his left for another weapon. Missouri is on the other side of the kitchen, hand on the counter for support, but she shakes her head at Dean as he comes in.  
  
"Stay where you are, Dean."  
  
"Dean," Sam says and the relief in his eyes is palpable. "Dean, man," his voice is a croak, "where are we?"  
  
Dean cuts a look at Missouri who says, "He doesn't know who I am."  
  
He turns back to Sam and moves toward him slowly, hands outstretched. "Let's put the knife down, huh? Look at her, she's a little old lady, you think you couldn't take her?" Sam puts down the knife, dividing his attention between Dean and Missouri.  
  
"She's-- Is this real?"  
  
"Totally real, Sam. I'm Dean, you're Sam, that's Missouri Moseley, remember her? We saw her a few years back when there was a poltergeist in our old house. Remember that?"  
  
Sam hesitates before saying, "We're in Lawrence?"  
  
"Yeah, man, we're in Lawrence. We drove here to figure out your freaky mojo. Missouri's a psychic, just like you."  
  
"Missouri. Moseley?" Sam wrinkles his nose like he's remembering a name from his childhood. "I don't... I've never..." Then he blinks and looks around the kitchen, at the spaghetti sauce burning on the stove, the pots knocked from their hooks, and says, "What the hell happened?"  
  
Dean comes forward and grasps Sam's arm, squeezing it gently. "You checked out, dude. You remember Missouri?"  
  
"Yeah, I--" Sam looks around. "I forgot?"  
  
"You remember her now?"  
  
"Yeah, I do, I just... I don't understand."  
  
"It's all right," Missouri says. She comes forward and gets a sponge to mop up where the spaghetti sauce splattered. "It's good this happened while you were here. I'll see if I can find something to help your memory after dinner and we'll work from there." She gives Sam a kiss on the cheek and pats Dean's arm on her way out of the kitchen.  
  
-  
  
They throw away the burnt sauce and leave the pot sitting in water. Dean drive them to dinner in her Volvo and they end up at a burger joint where she sips on a chocolate shake and somehow gets Sam to eat a burger instead of a salad. True to her word, when they get back to the house she disappears in her back room and comes out with a small bag that smells like sage and pine, and gives it to Sam. "It should help you remember, or at least not forget so easily, but it'll only last a few days. You'll need to figure out something stronger, something that can ground you better and keep you from getting lost in your head."  
  
They do rock-paper-scissors for the bed in the guest room and Sam wins, leaving Dean with the foldout couch in the living room. Dean can't even pretend to be a sore loser, mostly because Sam's asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Instead, Dean gets his duffel and tosses it on the foldout, toeing off his boots and allowing himself to pad into the kitchen in socked feet. Missouri's scrubbing the pot with a box of baking soda on the counter but she brings over a plate of cookies without comment when Dean sits at the table.  
  
"So," Dean says and Missouri gives a low chuckle.  
  
"No need to be coy, Dean Winchester, I already know what you want to say."  
  
"Shut up, you're wrong?" Dean hazards and grins.  
  
"That's the boy in you. What does the man say?"  
  
Dean sighs. "Is there any milk?"  
  
Missouri gives him a look but pulls the jug from the fridge. "Glasses are in that cupboard there." She goes back to scrubbing the pot, the only sounds the scrape of the sponge and the light sift of baking soda.  
  
Finally, Dean says, "There's two sides to the equation."  
  
Missouri hums. "Ain't that the truth. I told you one side this afternoon." She turns to look at him. "And now part of you wants to ask me what the other side is except you figure I wouldn't have told you about the other unless this side was worse."  
  
"Is it? If resisting this angel-hybrid change is so hard on him, why not make the choice to change or not and be done with it?"  
  
Missouri sighs and turns back to the pot. "It's not a choice between being human or being angelic, honey. It's more complicated than that."  
  
"So explain it to me."  
  
"Sam has a difficult choice," Missouri says, hands slowing as they scrub until they stop completely. "If Sam says yes and lets those powers make themselves at home, stretch out and settle in, he's giving up control of his body. I don't know how much he's talked to you about what it was like to let the Devil in, but there are always scars from those kinds of things. I don't know your brother as well as you do, but I'm not psychic for nothing, and I can tell you that his worst fear is letting something else in."  
  
"So he says no. If he holds out and refuses to use them, he'll be fine."  
  
"The powers will take their toll on his body, like they're doing now--"  
  
"If it's a choice between seizures and spacing out and Sam feeling like he's possessed again, we take door number one," Dean interrupts.  
  
"--but, Dean, I have to tell you, I don't think he's going to make it."  
  
"He'll make it."  
  
Missouri puts the pot down and wipes her hands off on a towel. Dean puts down a cookie as she pulls up a chair next to his. "Dean, honey," she says quietly, "if Sam says no, he'll die."  
  
Cold washes down Dean's back. "When?" he whispers.  
  
"I don't know. Months, a year, maybe several. It'll be slow."  
  
The cookie falls from nerveless fingers and Dean pulls his hands into his lap, braces them on his knees. "You said not using the powers will help."  
  
"Maybe but I don't know how much."  
  
"Enough to buy us time."  
  
Missouri's face turns pitying. "To find a cure? From who, honey, heaven? What you're looking for ain't there, Dean. Sam's doing the best he can to give himself as much time as possible."  
  
"To do what?"  
  
"To say goodbye."  
  
Dean stands up. "Unnecessary. My brother's not going anywhere."  
  
-  
  
They leave the next morning with the rest of the cookies and a bag of trail mix. Missouri squeezes Sam's hand and swats at Dean's shoulder, and they leave her waving from the front door.  
  
"How d'you think it went?" Sam asks once they get on the road.  
  
"How do _you_ think it went?" Dean returns and Sam shrugs.  
  
"I think she answered our questions."  
  
"Yeah, except we still don't know how to fix this."  
  
"She gave me that memory thing and I'll be looking for something to ground me. That's something." Sam looks over at the noise Dean makes. "You think this was a waste of time."  
  
"No, I don't."  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows. "Well then, how do you think it went?"  
  
Dean turns on the turn signal and eases into the carpool lane. "Awesome."  
  
-  
  
Sam is sitting on the end of his bed when Dean wakes up the next morning, a sheaf of papers and mug of coffee in his hands. His face breaks into a grin when Dean cracks his eyes open.  
  
"Dean, listen. I think I found a hunt."  
  
Dean groans and stretches, searching for that hazy place between asleep and awake. "Awesome. Call Bobby."  
  
"I looked up some stuff online. Dean, a section of the fields out back used to be a burial ground for the slaves when all this was plantations."  
  
"Fascinating," he gripes before what Sam said sinks in. "Wait, the fields _here_?" His head pops up and Sam is _grinning_ , the jerk. "What is it?"  
  
"Don't know yet. Angry spirit would be my first guess, but it doesn't feel the same."  
  
Dean sits up all the way at that. "Wait a sec. I thought we agreed your mojo was on indefinite lockdown."  
  
Sam's mouth pinches. "Yeah, but--"  
  
"But nothing, Sam, this isn't some casual thing you're messing around with."  
  
Sam gives him an incredulous look. "We agreed I'm not going to be soaring the TV remote around or picking the winning lotto number. And I didn't. But getting supernatural vibes is kind of beyond my control at this point."  
  
"So you got a vibe and, what, went exploring? At night?" Sam doesn't say anything. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "What'd you find?"  
  
"There wasn't really anything _to_ find. If I took you out there, you probably wouldn't even notice, but I'm telling you, it was lit up like the Fourth of July. Like something really powerful had just come through. Whatever it was isn't physical, and if it's traveling it's not tied to an object."  
  
"So we've got a rogue spirit that's using our back field as a landing pad. Awesome."  
  
"I told you, I don't know what it is."  
  
Dean gets up with a sigh and fishes around in the dresser for a pair of clean boxers and a shirt. "Fine, just stay away from it and I'll talk to Bobby, see if he can get us some sort of banishing ritual."  
  
Sam's mouth firms. "Why?"  
  
Dean closes the drawer, eyebrows drawn. "What do you mean _why_? Because it dragged you outside last night and now you've got a cold again. It's a two second job, I can finish it and be done with it."  
  
"And if a banishing ritual doesn't work?"  
  
"Then we'll ask Bobby to come down, see what he makes of it." Dean throws a shirt over his shoulder and heads to the hallway bathroom, glaring when Sam stops the door from closing with a wide palm.  
  
"There is a hunt literally on our doorstep and you want us to ignore it," Sam says, eyes narrowed.  
  
"Yahtzee."  
  
"When have we ever backed down from a hunt?"  
  
"Since we have enough on our plates as it is."  
  
Sam's eyes flash. "If you're doing this because you think I can't handle it--"  
  
"Sam, our whole lives right now are full of _can't handle it_. Okay? We went to Lawrence because we couldn't handle it. And now we're back, and we still can't handle it. You know the one piece of advice Missouri gave us that might help us get a grip on all this? Stop using the powers."  
  
"I told you, I'm not--"  
  
"Don't kid yourself, Sam, you didn't use them because there wasn't anything out there last night. But if you'd seen something, you would've. You know it and I know it."  
  
Sam's jaw tightens. "You can't expect me to sit this out."  
  
"I can because that's exactly what you're going to do."  
  
"I'm not a child, Dean."  
  
"Then stop acting like one."  
  
"You can't just make up rules like this!"  
  
"I can when it's your life on the line!" Dean explodes and Sam face abruptly clears.  
  
"Who told you that?" he asks in a quiet voice.  
  
"Missouri," Dean says. Sam nods and Dean drags a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to... You're..."  
  
"It's okay," Sam says. "I know. She told me, too."  
  
Dean looks up at that. "Were you going to tell me?"  
  
Sam doesn't answer, and Dean sighs.  
  
"You keep using them and you're leaving yourself wide open to angelic brainwash. You don't and you die who knows when. Pretty crap hand."  
  
"Either way I have an expiration date," Sam says.  
  
"There's going to be something out there, man. If there's any chance of a cure, we'll find it, but we need to buy ourselves some time here. And that means not using your powers until we figure out a way to put them to rest."  
  
Sam nods again, his arms folded. "I talked to Missouri about that, too. There isn't a cure."  
  
"We don't know that."  
  
"Have you talked to Cas?"  
  
"Screw Cas. Heaven doesn't know jack squat."  
  
"They know enough," Sam says. "When Cas doesn't respond, it's usually because he doesn't have an answer. Usually because there isn't one."  
  
Sam shifts and Dean grabs his wrist before he can move. "Sam, I swear I'm not going to let you burn out, but you've got to work with me on this. You've got to give me a chance. And you've got to swear not to use them."  
  
"We don't know how long I have," Sam says. "We don't know anything about this--no one does."  
  
Dean's grip tightens. "If there's a way to save you, we'll find it. You, me, Bobby--you know he's not gonna sit this one out. We'll find it. I won't stop looking until we do."  
  
"I know you won't," Sam says. There's a moment of silence, then he says quietly, "Okay. I won't use them. So long as nobody's dying and there's something I can do to help, I won't use them. But, Dean, I can't just sit and watch if people are dying in front of me. I couldn't live with that."  
  
"Fair enough. It's a deal."  
  
Sam huffs a laugh and leans his head on the doorjamb. "Since when has that ever been a good thing?"  
  
"Since now," Dean says firmly and Sam shoots him a real smile before he heads downstairs to eat breakfast and leaves Dean to shower.  
  
-  
  
They spend the day alternately tinkering with the Impala and surfing the internet for whatever information they can find. Sam leaves a message with Bobby asking him to call and Dean puts in a call to one of his contacts, sketching the situation as vaguely as possible, but no one has anything. Sam's doing pretty well, all things considered. Dean catches him staring off into space with his head tilted to the side and asks him what's wrong, but Sam grins.  
  
"Nothing," he says. "It just sounds nice. When you're working on her."  
  
Dean glances down skeptically at the socket wrench in his hands. "It _sounds_ nice?"  
  
"It's like singing, kind of. Low. I think," Sam gives a self-deprecating laugh, "I think it sounds like the Impala. If a car could sing."  
  
Dean considers for a minute, then shrugs. The Impala's always been half-sentient to him anyway. It's about time Sam acknowledges it.  
  
-  
  
That night Dean stays up well past midnight, but instead of lounging on the couch watching late night TV, he sits on his bed with the laptop, clicking around on the links Bobby emailed over about banishing rituals and harnessing power. It's a pretty obvious attempt to keep an eye on Sam and make sure he doesn't go wandering off like the night before, but when Sam does wake up he finds Dean asleep, the laptop balanced precariously on the nightstand. The night is hushed, the only sound the pattering of the rain he sensed yesterday, and there's nothing happening in the field tonight.  
  
Still, Sam slides out of bed and retraces his steps from the night before. This late there's no sound but the wind through the pines and the crunch of frost beneath his feet as he walks along the edge of the field to where a couple weeks before he had mapped out the beginnings of a vegetable garden with wooden stakes and twine. He closes his eyes, breath puffing in the cold air, and says, "Cas, I need to talk to you."  
  
There's no answer but a slight breeze passing through the long stalks of grass on the outer edges of the field. Then there's the flutter of wings and a hand curves over Sam's shoulder. When he turns, Castiel looks the same as ever, trench coat wrinkled as if he hasn't had time to perform simple human tasks like care for his vessel.  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Cas." Sam smiles and offers a hand. "It's good to see you, man. I honestly didn't think you'd come."  
  
"I'm sorry I've been absent. It's been difficult to find the time."  
  
"Yeah? How are things?"  
  
Castiel sighs, looking away. "Difficult. The factions remain divided. Raphael has emerged as a leader of the main contingent but he is challenged by others. I doubt he'll hold his position long."  
  
"Sounds pretty rough."  
  
Castiel cuts Sam an inscrutable look. "It would go easier if--"  
  
"Look, Cas, if this is another shtick about how I'm supposed to be Heaven's magical warrior, you can forget it."  
  
"My apologies. I haven't asked how you and Dean are doing."  
  
"We're fine, thanks for asking. Keeping busy."  
  
Castiel looks down at the twine sketched in neat rectangles on the ground and says, "It's early for planning a garden."  
  
Sam follows his gaze and huffs a laugh. "It's not really a plan or anything. I just got tired of papers one week and decided to come out here and mess around a little. We'll see if any of this gets past Dean's approval."  
  
"This will be accomplished in the spring?"  
  
"Maybe." Sam nudges one of the stakes with a boot. "I thought so, once."  
  
"You're abandoning gardening."  
  
Sam bares his teeth in what might be called a smile. "I might be abandoning a lot more than that, actually."  
  
Castiel studies Sam's face for a moment, then lets out his breath to cloud in the air. "You know."  
  
"Yeah. We visited an old friend in Lawrence this last week, actually. She told us."  
  
"And you still refuse."  
  
Sam nods.  
  
"What does Dean think?"  
  
"I thought you wanted to leave Dean out of this."  
  
"Not if he could make you see reason. Sam, you have two choices: life or death. I can't help but think you're making the wrong one. If not for your own sake, then for your brother's. You of all people should know that Dean doesn't function without you. By keeping your humanity you're leaving your brother with nothing. Do you understand?"  
  
"I do know that," Sam says firmly. "But the answer's still no." When Castiel opens his mouth, Sam raises his hand and cuts him off. "I don't want platitudes, Cas. I've thought it through, it's fine. Maybe it's better this way."  
  
Castiel watches Sam with a careful eye. "Why did you call me here, Sam?"  
  
"I need you to look out for Dean," Sam says, not taking his eyes from the ground.  
  
"You and your brother are always in my thoughts. I know it doesn't seem likely; I need to visit more often."  
  
"I know, but I mean later. I think...in the spring, I need you to be around more. Not just keeping an eye on us, but actually here--visiting, sitting, talking. Sleeping, even. Doing normal human things. Can you do that for me?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel says, "but why--"  
  
"I need to work through it," Sam says quickly, "on my own. I've got two choices in front of me and neither of them is something I want. I can't-- I don't even know if--"  
  
Castiel watches him struggle and then nods his head. "Agreed."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Still, I can't help but ask why you insist on refusing your powers. I don't have answers, Sam, but there's a possibility that Heaven's training could help, at least so they're not so uncontrollable, to help keep your mind and body intact."  
  
"Help?" Sam laughs. "I think I'm beyond help at this point, Cas. I can't swim to shore, the best I can hope for is to hold on to the wreckage."  
  
"It doesn't have to be that way. It's difficult because you're holding back--if you let go and embraced the powers--"  
  
"No," Sam says firmly, in a voice that dries the words in Castiel's throat.  
  
Castiel has never looked more like a vessel, shoulders slumped and fragile-looking. "Why? Why would you refuse to choose the one thing that we know can save you?"  
  
"Jimmy," Sam gestures at Castiel's body, "told me once that being an angel's vessel was like being chained to a comet. That might have been true for most angels, but Lucifer was like being chained to a planet. And that was before I jumped."  
  
"I know a little of what the Cage was like, Sam," Castiel says gently.  
  
"Then why," Sam asks and his eyes are filled with tears, "why would you ask me to do this? Why put me back there?"  
  
"Embracing the powers wouldn't be the same as possession. A part of you would still be in control, Sam."  
  
"Then that's worse! I've tried controlling them and I can't get a handle on them, Cas. I can't. It's like trying to hold flames, it can't be done. And if I say yes and give my subconscious over to angelic brainwash? I'm supposed to just let that side of me walk around with supernatural abilities at its disposal? I was face-to-face with the Devil for years, Castiel, _years_. I shouldn't be given free reign, I should be locked up in a padded room."  
  
Castiel steps forward, his face solemn. "I wholeheartedly believe that there is not any side of you, Sam Winchester, that is touched by evil. And that allowing that power to work through you would not be as terrifying as you think."  
  
"How can you say that?" Sam demands. "You were there, you've seen everything I've done."  
  
"I saw you turn yourself into a weapon to save the people you love. I saw you fight Lucifer and win--something that the host of Heaven holds in awe. You're not dangerous because you're powerful. You're powerful because, of all people, you are the safest. You believe so fervently in the goodness of others. I often wonder why you can't believe in the goodness of yourself."  
  
"I live with myself, Cas." Sam's smile is bleak. "I know what it's like in here."  
  
"Sometimes I don't think you do."  
  
Sam drags a hand down his face. "Anyway," he says, like they were discussing the weather or a grocery list, "this spring. Hang around."  
  
"I promise."  
  
Sam offers his hand and Castiel takes it, tightening his fingers around Sam's cold hand.  
  
"I hope you get your garden, Sam," he says, then he's gone.  
  
Sam looks at the plot. One of the stakes is knocked from the dirt and the twine drags the ground. His plans look feeble, helpless.  
  
"Yeah," Sam tells the empty air, "me too."  
  
-  
  
Sam's asleep when Dean wakes up but there's no sign that he had any late-night trips to the field so he leaves Sam a note-- _Morning, princess_ \--in the mug Sam always uses and heads in for work. It's easy to get lost in the rhythm of things, to joke with the guys and let himself forget for a little that this isn't their life, that the whole reason they're here is back at the house, probably sleeping the day away. Then Dean's phone rings as he's heading out to his truck for lunch.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Dean?" Sam's voice is tight. "Can you pick me up?"  
  
Dean slams the truck's door behind him and turns the ignition. "Damn it, Sam. What happened, are you okay? Where are you?"  
  
"I'm fine. I'm at the high school."  
  
"The high school? Did something happen in class?" Dean curses. "I knew you should've canceled tutoring today."  
  
Sam gives a dry laugh in answer. "I sort of did."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I'll tell you when you get here."  
  
Then Sam hangs up.  
  
-  
  
Sam's waiting on the steps of the high school, leaning against a wall, when Dean pulls up, and he slides into the front seat of the truck with a dark look on his face. His hands are restless after he buckles his seatbelt and his chest rattles when he coughs into a hand.  
  
"What happened?" Dean demands once Sam settles in.  
  
"No more tutoring job," Sam says shortly.  
  
Dean stares at Sam. "What do you mean, no tutoring job?"  
  
"I got fired. _Suspended_ , actually."  
  
"You did not."  
  
Sam's knuckles knock against the window. It's chilly enough that his body heat fogs up the glass where he's touching it. Sam doesn't say anything.  
  
Dean swallows and pulls away from the curb. "What happened?" he asks again once they're away from the school. He doesn't take them home, turns instead to the coffee shop, no thought but _warm_ and _familiar_ coming to his mind. Sam's hands are still knocking into everything, picking at the zipper of his jacket, spreading over his knees.  
  
When Sam does talk, his voice is almost a whisper. "I don't know, I thought it was fine. I was doing fine." He swallows, wipes his hands down his thighs. "I was tutoring Jordan--"  
  
"Jordan who?"  
  
"Sayles," Sam answers and Dean nods, doesn't know why he asked other than he needs the facts, needs names and maybe addresses if this goes wrong, if this messes things up. If this messes things up, they're going to need everything they can get.  
  
"I was tutoring him and it started getting hard to concentrate with the..." Sam makes a gesture, "colors and everything. I thought I'd ride it out, see if it passed, but it kept getting worse and I kept seeing lights, like sparks or something, so I got up to get a drink. I told Jordan we'd take a five minute break." Sam pauses for a minute. "But I don't think that's what I actually said."  
  
"What'd you say?"  
  
"I don't know. I don't know. All I remember is that I was standing when I was talking to Jordan and then I woke up on the ground and the janitor was there."  
  
"You woke up on the _ground_?" Dean pulls to the curb outside the coffee shop and turns to Sam. Mrs. Kim passes by the truck and waves. Dean ignores her. "Why were you on the ground?" Sam shifts, picking at the sleeve of his jacket. Dean curses. "You had another seizure."  
  
Sam nods.  
  
Dean swears again.  
  
They sit in the truck, engine running, as day turns to dusk, watching the cars passing by them, the people going in and out of the coffee shop, the lights coming on in the store windows.  
  
Sam's voice is so quiet that Dean thinks he didn't mean to say anything. "I don't think I hurt him. They said I didn't hurt him, the principal and some of the other teachers. They came in later, I guess, I don't--I don't remember a lot of it. It was the scariest thing, man--one minute I'm fine, the next it's just gone: where I am, what I'm doing, who everybody is."  
  
"Worse than normal."  
  
Sam nods in confirmation.  
  
"Okay. Okay, we'll take this one step at a time. How long are you suspended?"  
  
Sam barks a laugh. "Does it even matter at this point? I don't think I should go back. This is what I was worried about, this is _exactly_ \--" Sam cuts himself off. "If I can be triggered like this--"  
  
"You weren't triggered. You had a seizure. You're not the dangerous one in this scenario, Sam, you're the victim."  
  
"I think that'd be a hard sell in front of a judge who knows that I'm a tutor for a bunch of kids."  
  
"Stop putting yourself on trial here," Dean snaps. "Everyone said you didn't hurt the kid. So you didn't hurt the kid. You've been fighting the cold of the century, weren't feeling well, had a seizure, end of story. How long are you suspended?"  
  
Sam rubs his hands over his face wearily. "The school board's reviewing the case. I'm supposed to wait for a call. I think they think I'm on drugs."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "Maybe you should be. You want coffee?"  
  
"No. Just want to go home."  
  
-  
  
The school calls later and says that Sam's suspension will last through the end of the month. They'll organize a meeting after Halloween and evaluate whether he will continue to have individual sessions with the students. The woman on the phone says that in the meantime Sam can still edit the students' assignments with the permission of the students' parents and that they'll send someone over with the papers.  
  
True to their word, that Friday the doorbell rings and Dean opens the door to see a tall redhead wrapped in a green scarf on the doorstep. "Hi," she greets him, flashing a bright smile. "You must be Dean. I'm Abby Chamberlin. The high school sent me over with some papers for Sam?"  
  
"Oh," Dean opens the door wider, "yeah, come on in."  
  
"I can't, actually, I've got to get going. Would you just give these to Sam and tell him that I'm on his side and I'm 99% sure everything's going to be okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll..." Then it clicks. "You were at Stairway. When Sam had his...thing."  
  
"Yeah, I was." She gives a regretful smile. "I'm sorry he's having such a hard time."  
  
"Yeah, me too. So you met him while he was working?"  
  
"Oh, Sam tutors me. Well, I'm working on my senior thesis--I'm a nursing major at Georgetown--and he's helping me with my arguments. It's kind of an informal thing--we meet for coffee sometimes and we go over his comments."  
  
"Georgetown, huh? That's kind of a high-end thing, isn't it?"  
  
"I've got a scholarship that I've been working my butt off to keep." Abby rolls her eyes and Dean instantly likes her. "My bedside manner is pretty awesome, if I say so myself, but this thesis is kicking my butt. My uncle works at the high school and told me they hired a writing tutor. He mentioned me to Sam, probably twisted his arm to take me on, and the rest is history. I'm pretty sure he's saving my life."  
  
"Yeah, he, uh, he does that."  
  
"Anyway, have a good evening! And tell Sam I said hi."  
  
"Will do."  
  
Abby hands him the folder of papers and waves once she's in her car. Dean is pretty sure if Sam isn't going to propose, then he will.  
  
-  
  
Sam's cold hangs on insistently and so does the effect it has on his powers. The weather drops ten degrees the weekend before Halloween and Sam keeps a scarf around his neck even when he's inside. Dean's almost glad that Sam's suspended from tutoring because despite his ability to keep things under control during his shifts at Stairway, at home Sam can't keep it up and looks like he's on drugs half the time, distracted and jumpy, tracking things that Dean can't see, putting a hand out to trace over words on a page or the furniture when he just can't help himself. Abby comes by every couple of days to either talk to Sam about her thesis or to trade new essays for the ones Sam already edited.  
  
"How's he doing?" she asks one day, leaning against the door of the kitchen with a steaming mug in her hands. She nods at Sam on the couch, knocked out with a plaid blanket pulled up to his shoulders.  
  
"Better, actually," Dean replies. "He's coughing less. Doesn't keep me awake at night as much."  
  
"The cold, yeah," she says, "but I meant how's _he_ doing?" Abby tilts her head and watches Dean with a look on her face that says it wasn't for nothing that she got a scholarship to Georgetown. Dean hesitates and Abby says, "He's not okay, is he?"  
  
There's another lie, another cover on the tip of his tongue, but Dean can't bring himself to do it. "Sam has a...condition," Dean says instead, watching her closely. "We're not sure what it is exactly, but I'm guessing that his immune system doesn't have enough juice to fight off whatever it is he's got and a cold too. Hence the seizures and the general spaciness."  
  
Abby nods, not surprised in the least. "He forgot my name earlier today. That's why I was asking."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Abby takes a last sip from her mug and sets it on the counter. "Not your fault. Besides, it's one more thing I can give him a bad time about." She winks and shrugs on her coat. "Well, tell Sam bye for me. I'm not gonna wake him up. See you after Halloween."  
  
"You dressing up?" Dean asks, following her to the front door.  
  
"Red Riding Hood." Abby shoots a devilish grin over her shoulder. "With a twist. I'm going to have a stuffed wolf's head in my basket. What about you?"  
  
"Us? Not sure yet, depends on how Sam's feeling. Most likely we'll be up to no good."  
  
"I wouldn't expect any less."  
  
-  
  
Dean doesn't know if it's the cold medicine and orange juice or the prospect of not being allowed to go outside on Halloween that does it, but by the time Halloween rolls around, Sam's cold is almost gone and his powers seem to have backed off enough that Sam is able to handle them like he used to. The forecast for the night says rain, but Sam shakes his head and says, "I doubt it." Sure enough, the night is clear and cloudless, a crescent moon lighting the sky but leaving enough shadows in the Finley's yard for Sam and Dean to hide in, ready to chuck candy at unsuspecting kids.  
  
"This is such a bad idea," Dean mutters, on his belly behind the row of hedges near the Finley's door. "If you get pneumonia from this, I am not taking care of your sorry ass one more day."  
  
"Shut up." Sam elbows Dean in the ribs. "I let you pick out the candy."  
  
"Yeah, because you were going to give everybody Skittles."  
  
"Skittles are great!" Sam argues. "Better than peanut M&Ms."  
  
"Hey, don't knock M&Ms. M&Ms are awesome."  
  
Sam stops and studies Dean's face for a minute, brow furrowed. "Since when do you like M&Ms?"  
  
"Since I was born, you idiot." He opens a Twix bar and tosses the wrapper at Sam's face. "Guess you were right about the rain," Dean says and Sam grins, teeth a white sliver in the dark.  
  
"Guess so."  
  
"It's so weird, man, I checked the weather, it was supposed to be raining all this week."  
  
"Yeah, weird."  
  
"Sam. You didn't..." Dean stops and looks at Sam, at the open glee on his face from the prospect of giving kids a thrill. He could almost be a kid himself with the way he keeps shifting in the leaves, his hunter instincts shot to hell after a few Reese's cups and a pack of Twizzlers. The question Dean was about to ask seems stupid, but he tries again anyway. "Can you--"  
  
"Shh, shh, I think I heard something," Sam hisses and gets a fistful of candy ready.  
  
Scores of kids ring the Finley's doorbell, dutifully chorus _trick or treat_ , fill their sacks, and are then showered with candy again on their way down the walk. Not a few run down the street screaming blood murder, but most shriek with surprise and delight. A few of the braver ones storm their position behind the hedge, using their candy-filled pillowcases in an attempt to beat the Winchesters senseless, and in the end Dean's the one who has to fight them off because Sam's laughing too hard.  
  
They pick up and head home after that, grass-stained and grinning, with chocolate striping their faces and Jolly Ranchers jammed in their pockets. Clouds are just beginning to ease across the clear skies and a drop of rain hits Dean's cheek as they cross their front yard but Dean doesn't ask again.  
  
After all, Sam has powers. But that doesn't mean he can control the weather.


	6. Chapter 6

  
It rains for the next week. Coincidence or Sam's doing, Dean doesn't know, but it fits the dark mood he wakes up in when he realizes what day it is. When they were kids, John used to rent some sort of apartment or duplex near a school and then take off on hunts for longer periods of time until he was gone for most of October. Invariably, though, he'd be back by November second, stumbling drunk or well on his way, tearful and sullen in turns, and they could always bet that as soon as he was sober they'd hit the road.  
  
November was always a month to pack things into, a month to ride out on back-to-back hunts linked by too much booze. They never talked about the fire or anything to do with Mary's death--but they also never forgot it. Which is exactly what Sam does.  
  
Dean goes to the garage early enough that Rick isn't even there, and he sits at the gate with the truck idling in the rain until the rest of the guys arrive. He appreciates the monotony of the job today especially, pours himself into the busywork in a way that he wouldn't need to before. They'll probably have something comfort-food related for dinner, the one night they eat at home since Sam doesn't work at Stairway on Tuesdays, and they can sit around the TV with a couple of beers and pretend to watch whatever's on and not talk about the event that brought their life to this in the first place. His throat is perpetually tight, too, which is just the icing on the freaking cake, and if Sam gave him his cold he's going to strangle him with his own scarf.  
  
-  
  
Bobby's call around noon isn't unexpected. He tends to keep tabs on them on the 2nd, even if he doesn't overtly say so. Usually he opens with questions about a hunt. Today, though, he's more direct.  
  
"Are you with Sam?"  
  
"Sam's at home. I'm at work. Why, what's going on?"  
  
Bobby sighs over the phone. "Maybe nothing. I just called his cell and, I don't know, maybe I'm a fool for worrying, but he sounded fine. Asked why I was calling. It caught me off guard so I just straight-up told him that I'm calling because it's the second and...he asked me why."  
  
Dean pauses a minute. "But he sounded fine."  
  
"He asked me why."  
  
"All right, I'll talk to him."  
  
"The kid's not in trouble, Dean, and kudos to him if he really is feeling that good. I'm just asking because of the three of you Sam was the one who remembered that date like it was somebody's birthday."  
  
"Yeah, that was the one day he wouldn't bother Dad."  
  
There's a pause where Dean can practically hear Bobby considering. "Maybe I'm crazy for thinking something's up."  
  
"No," Dean says, "no, you're not. I'll talk to him."  
  
Bobby grunts, then asks, "How's he doing?"  
  
Dean laughs and drags a hand over his face. "I don't know, Bobby, I can't tell if anything we're doing is helping."  
  
"It is," Bobby says firmly.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You think he'd be better off facing the kinds of monsters you boys chew through each week without his head screwed on straight? He needs this, son. Give him some time."  
  
"That's what I think we're running out of." Dean lowers his voice as one of the guys walks past him. "We talked to Missouri Moseley. She said Sam has to say yes or it'll get so bad he'll wish he had. I don't know what kind of timeframe we're working with but me and Sam have pretty much nothing as far as a cure goes, and it's kind of hard to poke around without raising people's suspicions."  
  
"Well. I'll keep looking. Keep your heads down, you hear?"  
  
Dean promises they will and hangs up. He could head into town for a sandwich and a pack of cough drops but the five-minute drive seems longer than is worth it, especially with the rain, and he's got plenty to chew over.  
  
-  
  
Dean stops by the diner on the way home and orders meatloaf sandwiches for both of them, jogging through the rain from the truck to the house with the take-out bags shoved under his jacket.  
  
"Hey," Sam greets him at the door. "Thanks for picking up dinner."  
  
"No prob." Dean kicks the door shut, unpacking the bags while Sam grabs two plates and sets them on the counter.  
  
"Want ketchup?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
The food's not hot but it's warm, cheese melting down the sides of the meatloaf. It's artery-clogging for sure, but about as comforting as food can get, and they need it. They eat in silence, the patter of the rain on the roof adding a warm undercurrent to the meal.  
  
"Bobby called," Dean says when he's halfway through his sandwich.  
  
Sam's eyebrows lift. "Did he? I thought he'd call today, but I hadn't heard from him."  
  
Dean stares. "He called you first."  
  
Sam's forehead creases. "No, he didn't."  
  
"Sam, you _talked_ to him. He said he called like he always does and you asked him why."  
  
"Why?" Sam puts his sandwich down and swallows. "What do you mean _why_?"  
  
"Like you didn't know what day it was."  
  
"It's the second. November second, I know what day it is. I've known this day my entire life."  
  
"I don't know, man."  
  
Sam stares at Dean for a second longer and then gets up, stalking upstairs and returning with his phone. He begins to recite the list. "Today I have received a call from Abby Chamberlin, a call from Tyler Rockwell, a call from--" Sam's fingers clench around the plastic. "Bobby Singer."  
  
"Just before noon?"  
  
Sam nods numbly.  
  
"Sam," Dean says quietly, "you're serious, you don't remember?"  
  
"I don't. And it's not like I wouldn't look at a calendar, I know today's the second and I know why he'd... Why did he think I forgot Mom's--what day it was?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Have I..." Sam hesitates. He pockets his phone and sits back down at the counter although his hands are loose fists framing his cooling dinner. "Have I been forgetting things? I mean, I know I've been forgetting things, I just..." His forehead creases. "I can't remember what they are."  
  
"I don't know, Sam. I wasn't here."  
  
"What about earlier? Before today."  
  
"You remember Missouri?" Dean asks cautiously, but Sam nods.  
  
"Yeah, I remember her. I remember forgetting her, too, but after that it all starts running together." He pushes aside his plate and brackets his head with his hands. "God, I can't even remember what I've forgotten. I don't even know. What if this is what happens, what if I'm just blindly going through my day, thinking everything's fine, and I'm supposed to be doing something or going somewhere, and I don't even know that I don't know what it is or where it is or who--"  
  
"Sam, whoa," Dean says and pulls at Sam's wrists until his fingers unclench from his hair. "Listen, you have to calm down. You know how people go crazy? They think of stuff like that."  
  
"But, Dean, you could be dead somewhere." Sam puts a hand over his mouth like he's actually going to be sick. "And I could just get in the truck and drive off, go see Bobby or something, because _I don't remember_."  
  
"You wouldn't, because there's one thing you would remember, and that's that there's no way you're allowed to operate heavy machinery unless you've asked my permission first."  
  
Sam snorts a wet laugh. "That rule stopped applying when I was fifteen."  
  
"Why do you think you always ride shotgun, then? Huh?" Dean makes a ridiculous face and stabs a finger at Sam's forehead. "It's because your subconscious knows that I'd kick your ass if you ever tried to take my place behind the wheel."  
  
"My subconscious is messed up."  
  
"Yeah, so what else is new." Dean turns back to his sandwich and nudges Sam with an elbow until Sam pulls his own plate back over and takes a hesitant bite.  
  
After a while he asks, "What did I forget? Besides Missouri. And today," but the pinched look of fear is gone from his face so Dean answers.  
  
"You forgot that I like M &Ms."  
  
A smile quirks Sam's mouth and he takes another bite. "M&Ms are practically a character trait with you."  
  
"And, like the rest of me, are unforgettable."  
  
"Apparently not," Sam quips.  
  
-  
  
Dean's attempt to keep his cold under wraps is apparently thwarted when Sam lets him sleep late on Saturday and makes him tea instead of coffee when Dean finally does come downstairs. Dean makes a face but dutifully sips on it after tossing back a couple of the vitamins left over from Sam's bout.  
  
"Not feeling good, huh?" Sam makes a sympathetic face.  
  
Dean shrugs. "Feel fine," he says but the first part comes out in a whisper and the second part in a croak. Yeah, so maybe not as fine as he thought. "Except for you giving me your friggin' cold."  
  
It's not like he had big plans for the weekend anyway, though, aside from driving to one of the bigger towns nearby and taking a look at their libraries, and it'd be scary that that's his idea of a good time these days but for the way Sam is warm and present in the chair next to him and Dean would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.  
  
Sam sets them up at a corner table, somehow manages to find every book on the supernatural that the library has, and piles them on the table. Dean pulls on a hoodie and idly sucks on a cough drop as he turns the fragile pages of the book Sam sweet-talked the crusty librarian into letting them handle. He doesn't notice Sam watching him until he crunches through the last bitter piece of the candy and fumbles another out of its wrapper and into his mouth.  
  
"What?"  
  
Sam shakes his head, caught, but smiles. "Nothing. Cherry?"  
  
Dean fishes the packet out of his back pocket and checks the label. "Good guess."  
  
"They make your breath pink."  
  
Dean's eyebrows rise. _"Pink?"_ he says and breathes out in a long, slow stream, as if he can see it too. "You're making this up."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and gets back to work and doesn't even make a joke when he passes Dean a packet of tissues later.  
  
-  
  
They leave with five books each, Dean making copious notes on napkins during his lunch breaks and then typing them up at night when he gets home. Sam watches him, face inscrutable, but he doesn't say anything when Dean ignores his suggestions to stop.  
  
On Wednesday, though, Sam's angry, and not in the silent, brooding, clench-your-jaw-and-glare kind of way. It's more in the loud, insistent, if-you-read-another-page-I'm-going-to-burn-the-book kind of way. In Dean's opinion, it gets out of hand when Sam actually jerks the book of his hands and growls, "It'll still be here in the morning. Go--to--sleep."

"Since when do you choose what time I go to bed?" Dean grumps.

"Since this is the third time I've come down here and it's two in the morning," Sam snipes, and now that Dean looks at him, Sam does look rumpled in the way that only people who keep getting out of bed to check on their sick brothers do.

"Fine, fine," Dean grouses and goes upstairs.

He's up at five, though, on the phone with one of Bobby's contacts, and then again the next day, squinting at the laptop with puffy eyes.

On Saturday, Dean rolls from his bed to the floor and lays there in a pathetic heap until Sam wakes up and declares, "You're sick."

"'M not," Dean protests, "it's a cold," but it sounds weak to his own ears, muffled like he's underwater.

"Denial isn't going to make it better. A doctor's visit is. Get up."

His head comes up at that and Sam offers him a hand up. "Can't we just do the chicken-soup-hot-tea route?"

"Not for pneumonia," Sam answers.

Dean looks affronted at the mere suggestion. "It's not _pneumonia_ ," he says, sounding scandalized.

Sam drives them to the clinic and they make Dean sit on a paper-covered table. Dean hates it when Sam's right.

-

Sam calls the garage on Monday and tells them Dean won't be in. Dean hacks his way through the rest of the week, spending most of his time either in bed or draped over the couch, reduced to grunts and eloquent finger gestures. Abby stops by on her way back to Georgetown with the ramen cups that Dean loves and Sam refuses to buy, but Sam meets her at the door without letting her come in and doesn't even bother dodging the balled up tissue Dean throws at him.

"You really want her to see you like this?" Sam says, casting a pointed look at the tissues littering the couch and the blanket pulled around Dean's shoulders. "Besides, she steps foot in this house and she'd probably get it herself. It'd be like _The Stand_."

Bossy as Sam is, it's not a total loss: Sam seems to be holding things together just fine, although he laughs whenever he sees Dean with cough drops, and whenever he thinks Dean's asleep he smooths a hand over Dean's forehead like he's checking for a fever and Dean feels a little better.

He's back to work on Friday and everybody calls it miraculous. Dean tries not to think about it too hard.

-

The principal of the high school finally calls that weekend and says that the school board would like to meet with Sam on Monday to review the tutoring situation. Sam doesn't eat the day before and changes his tie twice before giving up and going without one. Dean doesn't offer to drive him, just gets the truck started and waits for Sam in the driveway. They drive to the school in silence and he watches as Sam straightens his shoulders in front of the big brick building, lifting his chin and striding through the doors with his lawyer face on.

Dean drives to the post office, then stops by the diner for a piece of pie, chatting with Beth about the recent cold snap. It's an hour and thirteen minutes before his cell phone vibrates in his pocket and he gets in the truck before he answers it.

"What'd they say?"

"I start tutoring again on Wednesday," Sam says, relief in his voice.

A smile breaks over Dean's face. "You're sure they didn't fire you for real?" He can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes.

"I told them I'm having trouble regulating a medical condition and my doctor switched me to new medication. Hence the seizure."

"Did they call Bobby?"

"Yeah, he was great." Sam's grin is palpable over the phone. "I guess he pulled in some favors with a couple of doctor friends and spewed enough medical jargon that all they said they wanted were some fax records."

"That's awesome. Hey, we should go crazy or something. Hit the bars, pick up some girls."

"Except I work at the only bar in town and all the girls you see tonight you're gonna have to see tomorrow."

"Darn," Dean says, grinning. "So, movie?"

"I'll let you whip me at poker if it makes you feel better."

"Throw in some pie and you're on."

It strikes Dean as he drives to the school that between him and Sam, they've carved a niche for themselves in this town so wide it's going to be hard to crawl out of.

-

When Dean wakes to a veritable snowstorm, he groans and lets a hand drop to the floor in a half-hearted attempt to find a shoe or sock--anything to hit Sam with. He finds one of the slippers he jokingly got Sam a month ago and lifts his head long enough to chuck his chosen missile with unerring aim at Sam's mop of hair. Sam bolts upright.

"Dean, what the--"

"Snow." Dean is facedown in his pillow again but his finger is pointing accusingly at the window where tiny drifts have built up on the sill. "Snow, Sam."

Sam's eyes are puffy with sleep but they widen comically once he focuses where Dean's pointing. "Oh my god, look at it! Holy crap!"

Dean grimaces. Sam's face is going to have that five-year-old glow where he looks at something that he thinks is too wonderful to be real and Dean's going to feel guilty about crapping all over his happiness but, seriously. "Snow. _Snow_." He draws the word out in a groan that he's sure Sam couldn't decipher even if he didn't have a mouthful of pillow.

"Dean." That's Sam, shaking his foot, the floorboards creaking as he bounds to the window. "Dean, look at it, there's a ton--I bet school's canceled!"

"You're twenty-freaking-seven, Sam, you don't go to school."

"Who cares?" Sam's already down the hall, thudding down the stairs and--there, a pause while he gets on his boots and coat, good boy--out the door.

It's only ten minutes before Dean pulls on a couple shirts and his jeans and heads downstairs far less exuberantly than Sam to find his brother sitting at the counter with two steaming mugs, his hair curling from the damp.

"Hot chocolate?" Dean asks.

"Yours is half coffee, and you're welcome." Sam hands him a mug and squirts more whipped cream over the top of his own, swiping at his upper lip after he takes a sip. "Really coming down out there."

"Freaking November," is all Dean says. The hot chocolate-coffee-whatever isn't half bad, but there's no way he's going to admit to enjoying anything before eight o'clock in the morning.

"Yeah, weird. Think you'll get work off?" Sam continues hopefully.

"Nah, it's not bad enough to keep the garage closed, but it'll make it a bitch to get home. I'd better go shovel the drive, see if the street's too bad." He gets up and grabs his coat from the hook, then freezes with one arm in the sleeve. "Holy crap."

"What?"

"Holy crap," Dean repeats. "You did this."

"I did what?" Sam asks but understanding dawns on his face before he finishes. "No. Dean, I swear, I can't _control_ it like--" Sam has his hands out as Dean advances but his grin is too wide for Dean to think of anything but putting his little brother in a headlock.

"You did, you little punk! What'd you do, stay up all night doing your dorky little snow dance? I have to shovel the drive!"

"I didn't mean to, I swear," Sam laughs breathlessly, his words muffled in Dean's shirt. "God, Dean, did you even shower?"

Dean releases him and retrieves his coat from the ground, making a show of dusting it off. "That's the smell of a man."

"That's the smell of a jerk."

"Bitch."

"Yeah, whatever." Sam pushes at his shoulder and slurps at the remains of his hot chocolate. "Besides, I like snow. You can't blame me. It's the _weather_ , Dean."

"I know who's the cause of this!" Dean shouts from the front door. "And if I pull something from shoveling the drive, I know who gets the beatdown!"

"Just go already!"

So Dean goes.

Sam joins him a few minutes later, a shovel of his own slung over his shoulder. "Like I'm gonna let you shovel the drive yourself in your delicate condition."

"Shut up."

"You just recovered from _pneumonia_ , Dean."

"And it was miraculous, everyone says so, so I say a little snow isn't gonna hurt me any," Dean says. He bumps Sam's shoulder, trying to take over the patch of snow that Sam's shoveling and it becomes less about clearing the drive and more about shoving each other into the drifts. Sam shakes his hair like a dog, drops of melted snow spraying everywhere, and tilts his head back, tongue out to catch the flakes falling from the sky.

"Never knew you were such a freak about snow," Dean says, watching him.

"Shut up," Sam says and nails him with a snowball to the face.

So yeah, if Sam wants to like snow, Dean's not going to stop him. In fact, he'll make himself an hour late for work, because some things in life you don't pass by and stuffing snow down your brother's pants is one of them.

-

Dean's funneling oil into a beat-up Mustang when Abby calls his cell phone saying that Sam's gone.

"What do you mean _gone_?" Dean demands.

"I mean, we were having coffee and then he just took off running. He said he had to check something, I don't know what."

"Damn it. Which direction did he go?"

"Your house, I think, but Dean, he's not thinking straight. He might--"

"Abby, listen, I'm going to drive home and see if I can catch him. Keep your phone with you and I'll--"

"--call if you need anything, got it," Abby says.

Dean snaps the phone shut and strips off his coveralls, tossing them into the locker room and snagging his keys off their hook.

Fifteen minutes later, he's out in the field, following a pair of Sam's tracks that run from the back corner to the trees at the field's edge. The trail ends when the snow does, Sam's footsteps hidden by the dirt and leaves under the pine trees' wide branches. He swears and turns back to search the house again, cell phone pressed to his ear.

Sam doesn't pick up.

-

Rick closes the garage for the day and sends the guys out in teams, each picking a direction and combing the town and outlying neighborhoods for any glimpse of Sam. Dean picks up Abby and they drive to the high school, checking Sam's usual classroom, the break room, the gym.

"How the hell do you lose someone who's six-four?" Abby mutters.

It's like a joke that Dean's heard too many times.

-

An hour later, Dean checks the house for the third time and finds nothing. He calls Rick as he backs out of the driveway, palming the wheel with one hand, movements jerky with adrenaline.

"Where was the last place he talk--"

"I don't know," Dean shouts, "I have no idea where the hell--"

And then Sam pushes his way through the trees.

"Rick, I found him."

He's out of the truck and bearing down on Sam before he can blink.

"Where the hell were you," he snarls, lips pulling away from his teeth, before grabbing Sam's jacket and crushing Sam against him, hand on top of Sam's head like it could still fit under his chin.

"Johnson's Pond," Sam chatters against him.

"The hell were you doing there?" Dean pulls away and casts a sharp eye over him. "You look like a wreck." He strides over to the truck and reaches in to turn off the ignition, then nods a head to the house. "Shower. Then we'll talk."

-

Sam does shower and then finds himself on the couch with a bowl of hot soup pushed into his hands. Dean drags a chair in from the kitchen and sits with his hands laced, forearms propped against his knees. "All right," he says. "Today I got a phone call from Abby who said that you guys were having coffee together and then you took off. No one knows where you are. You're not at home, you're not in town, you're not even in the friggin' field you're always freaking out about. So talk. You went to the pond. Why?"

"I knew there was something out there," Sam says, watching Dean's face. "I don't know what it was. I've never seen something like that before."

"How'd you know about it if you were in town?"

"I know if anything happens out there," Sam says. "I just... I know."

Dean's eyes narrow. "You want to elaborate on that statement any, or am I not going to like what you have to say?" When Sam doesn't answer, he nods to himself. "That's what I thought. So you knew there was something out there and went to check it out. Doesn't explain why you look like death warmed over, hypothermia boy."

"I found it--whatever it is. I've never seen something like it before, Dean, it's like light that changes shapes. Skeletal, almost. I came to the field but it had already left, so I went to the pond."

"You saw it there?"

Sam nods.

"Could be a water nymph."

"Maybe. It's not like any water nymph we've ever fought, but I don't have any other--" Sam breaks off, eyes trailing across Dean's face. He's still long enough that Dean nudges him.

"Sam," he snaps. "Focus."

"Sorry, I just..."

Dean sits up and takes the empty bowl from Sam's hands. "Yeah, I know, you just. You're an idiot for taking this hunt in the first place."

"I was right," Sam says, pushing himself to his feet slowly. "There is something out there."

"And the only person it's attacked is you," Dean says. He's still standing at the edge of the couch, still in Sam's space, glaring at him and using the bulk of his body to make a point. "Until we have some dirt on this thing, you're dropping it right now. I don't care if that thing is dragging you out there--you stand up and tell it to stick it where the sun don't shine."

"Dean--"

"Giving in to this is leaving your subconscious wide open to a big fat yes, Sam. You're saying no, we agreed on that."

"I am saying no."

"Digging up trouble and using your powers is like saying no and whispering yes. Which one do you think your powers are going to want to hear?" Sam doesn't answer, just stands there with his jaw set. Dean drags a hand down his face. "Forget it. Hit the hay. I'm going to be up a while."

"Doing what?" Sam challenges.

"Embedding a microchip in you so you don't get lost again," Dean snaps.

-

Sam's powers pick up after that. Dean would like to blame it on the hunt, but he doesn't know if it's that--Sam's been sporadic enough that Dean wonders if the hunt doesn't ground him somehow, give him some sort of goal to move toward rather than sinking in his own head. It makes a horrible sort of sense, in Dean's mind: it's November, the worst month for as long as either of them can remember. Traditionally it starts off with a bang on the 2nd and the tragedy just keeps going until Thanksgiving rolls around and slaps them in the face. This year, somehow, he thought would be different. This year, when everything is crazy to begin with. If anything's going to break the chain, it's going to be this year.

But it doesn't.

Because last year might have had them fighting the apocalypse and trying to work in a meal of KFC take-out in a parody of Thanksgiving dinner, but this year has Sam carrying around a baggy of aspirin in his pocket just in case and unable to get through a day, usually, without needing Dean to pull him out of his own head and ground him in reality.

They go shopping and Dean finds Sam standing stock-still in an aisle, holding a pickle jar or studying the lemons on display. He thinks maybe Sam's being his geeky self, lets himself imagine for a moment that Sam will spout some little known fact about citrus fruits or glass factories. But there's something in the way Sam holds himself during those times, something sharp and alien, stiff in a way that Sam never is, that tells Dean it's not all Sam in there. He puts a hand on Sam's arm and gives him a little shake, waits until Sam's eyebrows knit and he looks down at Dean for a minute and finally blinks. "Get the cereal, huh?" Dean says and Sam's fine, goes with him willingly, acts like it didn't happen at all. Maybe because, to him, it didn't.

Half the time, Sam doesn't even know he checked out.

Sam folds over with a migraine at the Finleys when he goes over to help Carol rake the dead leaves from the lawn. Carol calls Dean and doesn't bother to hide the worry in her voice. No, it came on sudden, she says. Yes, he's responding to his name. He's on the couch right here, he won't take the phone. Dean doesn't expect him to. Sam is determined to keep as much control as he can, and if that means refusing to calm big brother's fears in order to stand on his own two feet, then Dean will give him that.

When Sam collapses right in front of Dean, dropping a mug of coffee on the living room floor, it's to muscle spasms that keep him corded and shaking for ten minutes on the floor, Dean kneeling next to him.

"Swear it," Sam gets out between clenched teeth. "I swear it. Haven't said yes."

"I believe you, Sam, it's okay," Dean soothes. "It's just your mind, it's fighting back. Just relax, huh? It's gonna be okay."

Sam thrashes a little, seeming to gain some control, before another spasm holds him still and trembling. His right hand is in a tight fist on his chest but his left is shaking, fingers jerking as his hand opens and closes.

"Keep going, Sam, you're doing good," Dean says, resting a hand on Sam's chest. "They're gonna give up in a second, hang on."

Sam's jaw locks, his throat working. "F-f-fighting." The word tapers off until it's a guttural sound in Sam's throat. A tear leaks from the corner of his eye and threads into the hair at his temple. Dean nods, rubbing his hand in circles on Sam's chest.

"Yeah, you're doing it. You're doing good, Sammy, c'mon. Make 'em back off."

Sam's eyes skip from Dean's to the ceiling, then back again. The spasms are slowing, Sam's mind giving him back some control of his limbs. His right fist unclenches, blood rushing back to the knuckles. Another minute passes and finally Sam gasps in a breath, then another, his lungs expanding more each time. Dean draws in air with him and sits back, pulling a hand down his face.

When Sam's breathing returns to normal and his eyes are closed, every muscle limp, Dean says, "Your subconscious is putting up a hell of a fight."

"Sucks," Sam says, the word slurred. There are lines bracketing his closed eyes, around his mouth. He's going to want aspirin.

Dean licks his lips and says, "It's getting worse."

"I know." Sam chuckles mirthlessly, eyes still shut. "Believe me, I know. I can feel them. They're all behind this door in my head. It's cracked a little bit, enough for some to leak through the bottom, but I can hold them for now. As long as I push against the door, they can't do anything to me."

"Are you kidding, Sam?" Dean pushes his hands through his hair, then again, leaving his palms covering his eyes. "They _are_ doing things to you. They're messing all this up. Our cover, our life, our... Everything."

He feels a hand curl around his ankle.

"I'm still me," Sam says in a small voice and Dean curses in his head because Sam hasn't been fully Sam since Heaven got its claws in him and if they're right then Sam will keep disappearing a piece at a time until Dean's got nothing left.

-

That night, Dean wakes up and he doesn't know why. There's a moment where he lies in bed, eyes wide in the darkness, not moving. Just listening. Then he realizes: he can't hear Sam breathing. He's up with one hand on Sam's bed where Sam's body should be when he realizes there's a low whistling noise through the house, like wind coming through an open window.

"Crap."

He pulls on jeans and stuffs his feet into boots, clumping his way downstairs without worrying about the noise.

The front door is open.

He jogs outside and blinks before he realizes what's in his face: snow. It's scattered like powdered sugar on the walkway and as he watches the flurries seem to fall faster and thicker. "Sammy!" he hisses, turning in a circle to scan the yard.

Sam is standing by the maple tree in his pajama pants and a T-shirt without even socks on his feet. His head whips around when Dean calls his name and he gives a violent shiver, like he just realized the weather was below freezing.

"Dean," Sam greets him as Dean grabs his arm and starts hauling him inside. "What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same question, you gigantic idiot. Are you freakin' crazy? It's 2 a.m. and twenty degrees out!"

"It's...what?"

Dean gets Sam inside and unceremoniously strips off his shirt, giving him a shove upstairs. "Put on something dry. We got a heating pad or anything?"

"B-bottom drawer," Sam chatters, gripping the railing as he shivers his way upstairs. "Dresser."

"Perfect." Dean slides past him and digs the heating pad out of the drawer, unwinding the cord and plugging it in on its highest setting. "Probably should start you on this gradually but you're practically blue, man. What the hell were you doing out there?"

Sam sits on the bed like it hurts, slowly pulling his hoodie over his head. "Don't know."

"Tell me you have more than one layer on."

Sam nods.

"You put on socks?"

Sam nods again.

"We'd better do something about that hair," Dean grumbles. "Carol mention any other gifts that came with the rent, say, a hairdryer or something?"

"Th-think there's on in the h-hall cl-cl--"

"Yeah, I got it."

He keeps blow-drying long after Sam's hair is dry, until Sam stops shivering and his eyes are dropping under the warm rush of air. Then he winds up the cord and puts it away in the dresser with the heating pad, a sick feeling in his gut like they'll be needing those two again. He gets them both in bed and he lays there in the dark again, counting the steady rhythm of Sam's breaths.

"You don't know why you went outside?" he asks, not expecting an answer.

Sam answers anyway. "I couldn't help it. There was something pulling and I needed to see what it was. It felt...felt like I could breathe, out there." Dean winces at the relief in Sam's voice. "Like there was this weight off my chest."

Dean doesn't have an answer for that one.

-

It may be the first time it happens, but it's not the last. Later, Dean figures they should have seen this coming: Sam's mind is most vulnerable when he sleeps, of course his powers are going to choose then to hit hardest. Eventually they piece together that Sam stumbling outside isn't a precursor to a seizure or part of those thirty-second lapses when Sam loses track of things. They're something completely different, pieces of everything that Sam can do and everything that Sam is fighting against, all rolled together. Sam's face isn't expressionless because he's forgotten where he is--it's because Sam isn't Sam, he's something else. And whatever Sam might say about not being able to control the weather, Dean can't help but notice the way that snow always comes in light flurries after Sam has an episode, and Missouri's words press at the back of his mind-- _the world will bend to you._

And it doesn't stop there.

That week is the week they discover what grounds Sam. They'd been looking since Missouri, trying charms and routines without any idea of what might actually work, but that week they run into Marge at the gas station, and while Dean fills up her Oldsmobile as a favor, Sam takes the small prayer card from her hand.

"We're so glad everything turned out all right," she says and Dean looks over to see Sam duck his head like he did when he was a kid and embarrassed at the attention.

"Me too," Sam says. He opens the door for her and waves as she pulls out of the station. After Dean's done filling up the truck, he gets in and tucks the card into the visor.

"You keeping that?" Dean asks, disapproval in his tone.

"I want to check out the church," Sam says in answer and Dean gives him a look but drives them there. He pulls in front of the church with its white spire and follows Sam into the sanctuary, where Sam's eyes slide close in relief.

"It helps?" Dean asks, voice echoing against the stained glass.

"Yeah."

For whatever reason, church seems to snap Sam out of his head faster and keeps the seizures at bay. The first few times it happens, Dean spends the fifteen minute drive home ranting about the irony that hallowed ground is enough to drive the angel from Sam's system. He grudgingly sits in a pew and listens as Sam whispers prayers in Latin, the same ones he's heard Sam whisper after a hunt, in the dark when he thinks Dean's asleep.

Dean can't get the words out even though he's tried in secret, in the gray mornings before the heater comes on, when the cold seeps in under the door and settles deeper than his bones. He doesn't want to have to pray.

Then there comes a time when Sam doesn't snap out of it immediately and Dean paces up and down the aisle, watching Sam sit stiff and unnatural in the pew, and finally curses, packs his little brother in the car with trembling hands, and pulls over to vomit on the asphalt when Sam finally sucks in a deep breath and murmurs Dean's name.

After that, Dean is just glad that Sam's there.

-

One night, after a long shift at Stairway, Sam falls in the shower. Dean's downstairs on the laptop when he hears the muffled thump. He bounds up the stairs and has his hand on the bathroom door before he remembers the way Sam used to scream after his nightmares and he makes himself stop, clenching the doorknob until his fingers go numb. He waits until he hears another thump and Sam's voice calling, "Dean."

He turns the knob and squeezes in the bathroom door. Sam is on the floor, looking like something dropped him there then propped him up. He has a red bump on his forehead and he's holding his ribs but he waves away Dean's hands.

"Just bruised. Got distracted. Not as graceful as I used to be," Sam says, trying to grin, but the joke falls flat at the look in Dean's eyes.

"You all finished?" Dean asks.

"There's probably still conditioner in my hair." Sam ignores Dean's hand combing through the strands. "At this point, I don't really care."

"Wouldn't have this problem if you weren't the only guy on earth who uses conditioner."

"Wouldn't have this problem if I wasn't X-Men angel-bait," Sam quips back, getting to his feet with Dean's help.

Dean shakes his head slowly. "Don't joke."

Sam lists a little and Dean tightens his hold. Sam's eyes are staring at the corner of the bathroom mirror but his fingers find the top of Dean's head and squeeze in a clumsy attempt at comfort. "I'm not."

_It wasn't even a bad day_ , Dean can't help but think, automatically calculating the last time that he found Sam wandering around downstairs or standing in the doorway and letting the cold in. He clears his throat and asks, "Everything look okay?"

"Peachy. Except for the fact that you've got lasers shooting out of your eyes. And there's something in our water."

"There's nothing in our water, Sam," Dean says, already weary.

"There is." Sam follows easily as Dean leads them out of the bathroom, steers him to his bed. "Today it's squiggly and purple. Last time the water was blue."

"Water's always blue."

"Water's clear. For everyone else." Sam lays back and closes his eyes, ignoring the damp spot he'll leave on the quilt. "Everyone else but me."

Dean throws a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt at Sam and goes back downstairs. He stays up that night poring through the books Bobby sent to him and reading the articles Sam's bookmarked on the laptop. After five hours of nothing, he drinks a whole bottle of whiskey and calls in sick to work.

-

When Dean shows up at the garage around noon, Rick doesn't look too surprised.

"Cary said you called in today."

"Yeah, false alarm. Thought I had the stomach flu."

It's a lame excuse, flimsy as hell and practically see-through, but Rick doesn't seem put off. He leans on the fender of the car Dean's working on and runs a hand down his mustache.

"Cary also said you cut your hours."

Dean doesn't look up. Sam doesn't know, would hate to think that Dean did it because of him, but the truth is that Sam cut his own hours at Stairway to a couple nights a week, claiming to have trouble focusing because he's tired, and Dean's not stupid. He watches Sam tracking things that Dean can't see, watches Sam pinch at his skin to keep himself grounded, watches Sam jerk himself to alertness when he starts to slip away. It'll be tight, and the money that Bobby gave them months ago will be handy in a way that Dean never thought it would, but Dean'll be damned if he sits this one out and lets Sam fight alone.

"How's he doing?" Rick asks and Dean has to hold his breath before he can answer in a steady voice.

"It's better when I'm home," he answers. "Gets worse when he's by himself for too long. But, uh, staying busy, y'know--he's got his meetings at the school, a college thesis he's looking over."

Rick nods. "I keep thinking I'll see him at Stairway one of these days but I don't run into him as much as I used to."

"He's working less. You'd think he's the one with finals, the way he studies these kids' papers, but...he says he's gonna pick up his regular nights again in the spring. Mostly he just gets tired."

Rick nods again, shifting against the car and folding his arms across his chest. "I wondered when you couldn't find him the other day," he begins, then stops.

"He has a condition." The words fall from Dean's mouth like stones. He's not good at this, it's not like lying normally is. He should put emotion behind the words, he thinks, _condition_ , but it's worse than that, worse than one word can hold, and talking about a _condition_ isn't half as bad as saying _cureless_.

"My, uh, my wife's brother had cancer," Rick says and a chill washes down Dean's spine. "Lasted two years before he went."

Dean doesn't say anything, can't. His arm keeps moving mechanically, picking up pieces, fitting them together. His brain is frozen.

Rick asks, "When was he diagnosed?"

_Cancer_ , Dean thinks and almost laughs. That's about right. Deadly, inescapable, final. That's the word he was looking for--not condition, _cancer_. Something unnatural. Something you want to cut out. Dean clears this throat. "Uh, earlier this year. We've only known for about three months, actually."

"Too fast for chemo?"

"Chemo isn't gonna help."

"There're other things out there," Rick says quietly. "My wife checked out all these natural remedies. Sometimes I think they helped her more than her brother."

"We've looked into some of that. Still looking, actually. And Sam's a fighter, he's not giving up. It's just...gotten worse recently. He'll pick back up."

Rick's hand closes over his shoulder and squeezes. "It's not a pretty thing, and God knows it's tough. Just don't run yourself into the ground trying to fix it. I know it's hard and my wife would've tried anything if she thought it would help, but ultimately, we don't choose these things. Sometimes life throws you curve balls. You either hit 'em out of the park or strike out." Rick hesitates. "Don't worry about taking a day off if you need it. Just call in, let one of the guys know. You do good work, Dean."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean gets out.

"You're doing a good thing with your brother. I know it's tough."

Dean runs his teeth over his top lip, desperately wishing he had some way to get rid of the tears clogging his throat. "Well, he puts up with a lot."

"He's a good kid," Rick agrees, letting Dean go and heading into the office.

Dean stays under the hood of that car for the rest of the afternoon and no one says anything when he leaves that night and the work's not done.


	7. Chapter 7

  
"What do you say we take a trip?"  
  
Sam slides two longnecks down the bar and wipes his hands on a towel, voice pitched to be heard over the sound of the football game on TV. "Anywhere in particular?"  
  
Dean shrugs but it's too casual. "Thought we'd head to Bobby's for Thanksgiving. Why, you got plans?"  
  
Sam considers, shaking peanuts into the bowls scattered up and down the bar. "Bobby's, huh?" He puts the peanuts away and leans forward, bracing himself on the bar. "Staying at Bobby's is like walking into a mine field."  
  
"He wouldn't invite us if he didn't think it was safe."  
  
"Did he?" Sam asks.  
  
Dean's jaw firms. "We'll ask him."  
  
Sam casts a look around them and lowers his voice. "I know it may not seem like it, but whatever I've been hunting is still out there. It's not gone."  
  
Dean nods and takes a swig of his beer. "I know."  
  
Sam ducks his head and laughs to himself, pulling out a cloth to polish a row of glasses. "This is probably the worst organized intervention I've ever seen."  
  
Dean doesn't deny it. "It's only the worst if it doesn't work."  
  
"I haven't even been out to the field."  
  
"Yet. Only because there hasn't been anything out there. Look, maybe you're wrong. Maybe you did kill it. Took its life-essence, whatever. Good job, now you can leave it alone, and we can focus on getting rid of the powers that be."  
  
"And if I don't?" Sam asks.  
  
"Hence the intervention."  
  
"Going to Bobby's for the weekend isn't going to change anything."  
  
"Is that a yes?" Dean asks and Sam rolls his eyes.  
  
"I'll see if I can get the time off."  
  
-  
  
The last Thanksgiving they had at Bobby's had been years before, Sam old enough to stir the gravy if he stood on a stool and Dean cutting shapes into the jello with a knife, but it doesn't feel all that different. In fact, some things haven't changed at all: the rattle of the oven door, the smell of the stuffing, the way Bobby always sets out cranberry jelly even though no one ever eats it. The dog still noses at the air, investigating Dean mashing the potatoes, Sam carving the turkey. The tablecloth is the same, its pattern of harvest fruits still vibrant from years in the closet. And Bobby still takes off his hat and folds it between his hands as he gives grace over the meal, and they eat. He tells them about a hunt in Baton Rouge over pie and they play a game of poker while Zeppelin sleeps in his corner.  
  
Bobby wins two hands and loses one before he gets to his feet with a groan. "A smart man knows to quit when his luck turns and mine has just about gone south. Leave the dishes soaking in the sink, would you, and be quiet going up the stairs. G'night." He claps a hand on both of their shoulders and whistles for Zepp.  
  
"Anything open this late?" Dean calls after him.  
  
"There's a bar over on Fifth that keeps odd hours. You come back drunk, though, I better not hear about it."  
  
Dean grins and twirls his keys around his fingers, shooting Sam a look. "Wanna?"  
  
They drive into town and it's strange to see how similar the town is to their own, and how different. The bar is easy to find and they pull in and find a place to park along the curb, the sounds of a party coming through the open door.  
  
"Sounds like we weren't the only ones looking for a good time on Thanksgiving," Dean remarks and Sam grins.  
  
"'Cause nothing says _Happy Thanksgiving_ like celebrating at a bar."  
  
"Hey, you don't see me complaining." He jostles his shoulder against Sam's, breath steaming in the night air, and the next words come out of his mouth before he's ready. "It's funny, y'know. The holidays. Like, why didn't we celebrate all the good times when they really _were_ good? Why'd we have to wait until we're barely holding it together before we decide to throw some poor bird in the oven and eat pie?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "You got me." They walk a few more steps and Sam bumps Dean with his shoulder. "You gonna make this a habit? Kind of chick-flicky, man," he says and Dean punches Sam's arm.  
  
"Shut up, it's allowed. Once or twice, it's allowed."  
  
Sam grins and then Sam freezes, his eyes go fixed in that distant way that Dean has learned to hate, and the balloon of happiness that was expanding in Dean's chest deflates like someone's stuck a needle in it.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"There's-- Hold on, I can't--" Sam shuts his eyes tight, teeth gritted like it hurts.  
  
"Okay, okay, you need to sit down?" Dean looks around them for a place, somewhere he can tuck Sam until this passes, until Sam's subconscious decides he's not worth the effort and backs off. "All right," Dean encourages. "We got this. Ride it out, Sam."  
  
"Dean," Sam says, the word thick in his mouth. "Dean-n-n."  
  
And then Sam's whole body goes rigid, muscles cording in his neck, his spine snapped straight. His hands are fisted in Dean's jacket tight enough that the skin stretched over his knuckles is white.  
  
Dean shifts so that his shoulder is supporting most of Sam's weight and tugs at Sam's arms, trying to pull him away from the door of the bar and back to the shadows by their truck.  
  
A car door slams, followed by raucous laughter. Dean turns to face a group of guys heading for the bar, laughing and jostling each other. One of them takes notice of Dean and comes toward them, lifting his chin at Sam.  
  
"Everything okay, man?" one of them calls.  
  
"Fine, yeah," Dean says, using his body to herd Sam a few steps back to the car.  
  
The guy nods and follows his group into the bar, the sound of voices and music streaming out as they open the door, leaving the darkness quieter once it's closed. Dean curses a little to himself--that golden rectangle of light was their goal, was supposed to let them forget for a while--and then he gets back to business.  
  
"Okay, listen to me, Sam, we can't do this here. At home, sure, in the truck, that's fine, but out here on the sidewalk is not okay. Snap out of it."  
  
A shudder ripples through Sam but if he can hear Dean, he doesn't show it. Instead, he makes a choked noise and a drop of blood slides from his nose to his lips, shining faintly in the glow of the streetlamp.  
  
"Crap. Crap, crap, _damn_ it, Sam."  
  
Dean gets a shoulder under Sam's arm and steers them back toward the truck, Sam's legs stumbling like he's forgotten how to walk, and swears under his breath as another car pulls up on the street and two couples get out, laughing and chattering. Dean turns back to Sam, swiping a thumb under Sam's nose to stop the bleeding. They can weather this, they can just stand here and be weird for a minute, the world can give them a break for one damn minute, and if he can just get Sam's eyes focused on him instead of darting around like he's seeing Hell's greatest hits, they can--  
  
"Dean?"  
  
A woman with short brown hair is standing a few feet away, leather purse slung over her shoulder. A few other people are standing near the bar's entrance, watching them. It takes Dean a minute, but then it clicks.  
  
"Sheriff Mills," Dean says, then swallows. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Getting a drink with a couple of friends. I could ask you two the same question."  
  
"We're visiting." He renews his grip on Sam as Sam's eyes flicker, surfacing for a brief moment to stutter Dean's name.  
  
Jody takes a step forward. "That's your brother, right? Sam? Is he okay?"  
  
"Yeah, he's--"  
  
"Everything okay, Jody?" One of the women in the group comes up to stand next to Jody, her face tight, eyes narrowed like she's looking at somebody's snarling Rottweiler. Dean glares, bristling at the thought of anyone looking at Sam like that, but then his eyes follow her and his stomach drops. Sam's face is white, a direct contrast to the vivid blood painting his chin, staining his teeth from where it's dripped in his mouth, and his eyes have stopped tracking things invisible to the rest of the world. Instead, they're fixed on Jody and her friend with icy intensity.  
  
"Everything's fine," Jody says. "Just catching up with some friends. Listen, you guys go ahead and I'll be in in a sec."  
  
The blonde lifts her chin, looking between Sam and Dean with narrowed eyes, but finally nods. "I'll come looking if you're not back in five minutes."  
  
"Thanks, Cath," Jody says, then turns back to Dean. "What's wrong with him?" she asks in a low voice. "Is he epileptic?"  
  
Dean gives a short laugh. "Believe me, this isn't a seizure."  
  
"Is he going to be okay?"  
  
A guttural sound is pulled from Sam's throat. Dean shifts him, bracing his shoulder against Sam's chest, and Sam's fingers loosen their hold on his shirt.  
  
"Hey, hey," Dean says, pulling back to look at Sam's face, tapping Sam's cheek until Sam looks at him. "You with me?"  
  
"D-d-d," Sam tries.  
  
"Dean, are you sure--"  
  
Sam's eyes snap to Jody again, lips curling back in a snarl. Jody takes a step back and Dean shoves in, putting himself in Sam's path, digging his thumbs into the meat of Sam's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.  
  
"Sam, listen. She is not what you're fighting. You went too deep, you're mixing things up. Okay? Are you listening?" Sam doesn't budge, bracing himself against Dean's push, but he looks down at Dean. "She's not your powers, Sam," Dean says in a low voice. "It's Jody, Jody Mills, remember?"  
  
He watches as Sam sucks in a deep breath, the glazed look in his eyes disappearing, and then Sam goes limp. Dean catches him as he sinks to the ground, blood gushing from his nose like it's broken, whispering to himself in what sounds like fragments of Enochian. His hands are shaking, chest stuttering as he pulls in deep lungfuls of air.  
  
"Good job, Sammy."  
  
A pack of Kleenex appears to Dean's right. He takes them and nods his thanks to Jody who folds her lips in a smile and squeezes his shoulder before walking away. Dean rips open the pack and holds Sam still by the back of his neck as he mops what blood he can off of Sam's face.  
  
"Listen to me, Sammy, we gotta go. You hear me? C'mon, get in the truck."  
  
He hefts Sam up and pushes Sam again, putting his shoulder into it, and Sam goes easily, pliant and malleable. Dean buckles him into the truck, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he gets behind the wheel and thinks about what they should do. If he could have his own way, he'd drive them back to Bobby's and clean Sam up, turn on a movie, pull out the whiskey, and forget about everything for an hour or two.  
  
Sam is still and quiet in the passenger seat, head tilted back as thick drops of blood slide from his chin to his neck. In his lap, his fingers are trembling.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Worse," Sam says, the word thick. He swallows, eyelids fluttering shut. "Tired."  
  
"You went deep there, bro."  
  
"Had to," Sam answers. "That's where they are."  
  
Dean curses and reaches across Sam to the glove compartment, digging around for napkins and wadding them in Sam's lax hand. "Wipe your face." Sam does, mechanically, two passes from nose to chin before balling the napkins in his fist and closing his eyes again.  
  
A church, then.  
  
Bobby picks up on the fifth ring. "You're going to make me regret letting you leave the house, aren't you?"  
  
"I need directions to the nearest church."  
  
Bobby sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. "St. Catherine's. You follow Fifth to Orchard. You need me to meet you there?"  
  
"Nah, I've got it covered. Thanks."  
  
-  
  
He pulls in front of the church and shifts the truck into park, anger bubbling in his chest when he realizes that the doors to the sanctuary are open and there's music drifting from inside. He should have known there would be a service--it's Thanksgiving, of course there's a service--and every church in town will be having some sort of event, some sort of worship something or sermon on thankfulness or food drive. The thought of all those people gathered together in there singing about the things they have brings a sick feeling to Dean's stomach, like someone took his words and twisted them into something ugly. Sam doesn't say anything, but he's known Dean too long to not know what he's thinking.  
  
Here they are, the great Winchesters, sitting in an old Ford with the heater blasting because Sam's starting to come back to himself and will be chattering his teeth out soon, and the world's here because they made it so. Sam's here, he's _right here_ , and if there's anyone those people should be thanking for even having a church to sing in, it's the kid sitting next to him with his own blood dried on his face.  
  
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the faint sound of singing coming from the church.  
  
Sam doesn't open his eyes when Dean finally asks, "What's it like? Being there. In your head."  
  
"Like possession," Sam says. "Like my powers. Like a combination of those things, something else that's always been in you waking up. You feel it pushing and you push back--until you can't anymore."  
  
"Your nose was bleeding this time."  
  
"I pushed hard."  
  
They fall into silence again until Sam shifts in his seat, hands clenching around the wad of napkins.  
  
"I can tell when you're worried about things," he says. "There's an...orangeish...light, I guess. Reminds me of that time you got the flu in Montana and threw up all that Gatorade. It kind of sits behind your shoulders when they get tight. The church..." Sam nods at the white spire above them, shadowed in the night sky. "I can see...I don't know, feathers, I guess. Blue and white, and it lifts from the church there and just... _whoosh_." Sam spreads his fingers like a bomb going off and Dean drags a hand down his face. "Surprises me every time. Holy ground."  
  
"Why are you telling me this?"  
  
"I don't know," Sam says. "I don't know. Maybe so you understand."  
  
-  
  
Bobby's sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him, long gone cold, when they get back. He doesn't ask where they've been or what happened, takes in the drops of blood on Sam's shirt with a grim look and rinses out his mug. "Pot's still warm," he says, nodding to it, then goes back up to bed.  
  
Dean wakes late, and coming downstairs is like deja vu from the night before. Bobby is at the counter with a mug in his hand and he pours another cup for Dean when he comes into the kitchen yawning.  
  
"Where's Sam?" Dean asks, taking the cup with a grateful nod.  
  
"He's been outside most of the morning. Zepp's been keeping him company. You boys going to stick around for a few days?"  
  
"Wish we could, but Sam's got his shift at the bar and they need me at the garage. Besides, laying low, right? For a while longer, at least."  
  
Bobby glances through the window, probably looking for Sam. "How long do you think until Sam's ready to hunt again?"  
  
"It's only been a few months. I was thinking a year, at least."  
  
"And he's going to make it that long?" Dean's head snaps up and Bobby holds up a hand. "Missouri called." He puts down his coffee up and lowers his voice, as if Sam was in the next room and not outside somewhere. "I know you've been working with him, but Sam's not better. He's different."  
  
"He's doing his best," Dean says shortly.  
  
"And how long do you think his best is going to last? A year? Two? He's fading faster than that, kid."  
  
"I know that. You think I don't know that? That's the reason I brought him here in the first place, because I don't know how long he can hold out."  
  
Bobby hesitates, then asks, "Does Sam know that?"  
  
"I can't guess what Sam's thinking on his good days, you think I'm going to have a snowball's chance now? He came here, in the middle of a hunt, believe it or not. That should tell you something."  
  
Bobby nods at the window. "He might've left one hunt, but he's found another. Said there was something he wanted to look at out by the old well."  
  
"Damn it."  
  
-  
  
Sam's crouched by the well, Zeppelin nosing in the brown grass. The heavy cover is shifted so Sam can stare down into the blackness. Dean calls him three times before he looks up, and when he does his eyes are glazed, pupils dilated.  
  
"Dean. There's something down there."  
  
"What part of vacation do you not understand?" Dean growls, shouldering Sam aside so he can drag the cover back into place. "We're not hunting right now, Sam."  
  
"Maybe we should be." Sam's eyes are clearer, his voice firming as he becomes more focused. "I think there's a rusalka in there."  
  
The cover settles with a clang and Dean brushes his hands off on his jeans. "Nothing's coming through there, Sam, it's blessed--"  
  
"--iron, I know, I can hear it. You know what else I can hear? Whatever's down there screaming every night. If we just--"  
  
"Sam, no," Dean snaps, pushing him back a step. Sam stumbles, more out of surprise than anything, and Dean follows. "Would you look at yourself? I mean, really look. It's taking everything we have to keep our heads above water and our feet on the ground and, man, I feel like I'm doing it on my own. It's like every time I turn around you're haring off, trying to find a hunt, and I'm sick of it! You want to get yourself killed because something got to you before you even knew it was there, go ahead."  
  
"Fine, you want me to look at myself? I have. Hunting helps me focus, Dean. You want to know what I'd be like if I didn't?"  
  
"There's a difference between keeping sharp and running yourself into the ground. You were always on Dad's back over that."  
  
"You want me to not give up? This is how I do it."  
  
"Not hunting isn't giving up, it's picking your battles. Listen, I know you don't give up. Okay? You haven't given up a day in your life and we've had the fights to prove it. No one here to convince, Sam."  
  
Sam kicks at the iron cover, hair shadowing his face. "You don't know what it's like," he says quietly.  
  
"You're right, I don't." Dean steps forward. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna quit asking you to let it go."  
  
"Hunting?" Sam asks with a wry grin. "Or just this one?"  
  
"Whichever one you'll give me."  
  
Sam huffs a breath, considering. Finally, he says, "All right. I'll leave this one alone."  
  
It's a promise he's made before, but Dean doesn't care. He'll keep Sam promising it every day if he has to.  
  
-  
  
Dinner is quiet that night, and when they leave the next morning Bobby pulls Sam into a hug that lingers, and when he pulls away his eyes are rimmed in red. Sam doesn't say anything when he gets in the truck but he clears his throat a few times when Dean pulls out. But for the Impala, Dean could swear it's exactly the same as when they left in the summer, except Sam leans his seat back and goes to sleep and the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks reminds Dean that Sam was supposed to be better by now.  
  
-  
  
On the Saturday after they get back, Dean's in the garage messing around with the Impala when the side door opens and Sam walks in, charms around his neck and gun at his waistband.  
  
"You can come if you want," he says, "but I'm hunting it."  
  
Dean considers, then tosses his tools back in their box. "I'm coming."  
  
-  
  
He follows Sam to the back field and watches as Sam stands beneath the overhanging branches of a pine and closes his eyes, centering himself. After a moment, he murmurs, "There it is," and lifts a hand like he's threading string through his fingers. Sam doesn't make for Johnson's Pond. Instead he moves straight back through the trees bordering their property, pushing past the low branches and wending his way between the tree trunks fast enough that Dean's panting as he tries to keep up. A couple of times Sam stops, hand out and searching, but once he finds whatever he's looking for he's off again at a half-jog. Dean's so consumed with trying to keep up that he smacks into Sam's back when he finally stops.  
  
"Sam, what the--"  
  
Sam claps a hand over Dean's mouth, pulling them both into a crouch.  
  
"Where is it?" Dean whispers. Sam lifts a finger to point and then presses his palm to Dean's chest-- _Wait here_. "Like hell I'm waiting here," he growls, but Sam is already moving from a crouch to a half-run with more grace than Dean's used to seeing in his brother. "Sam," he hisses, watching as Sam draws himself to his full height, shoulders back and feet spread, and then the words dry up in Dean's throat.  
  
Sam cups his hands, eyes narrowed in concentration, and all sound bleeds from the trees around them. Blood rushes in Dean's ears, thumping to a rapid tattoo that gets stronger and stronger as Sam pulls his hands toward his chest. Then Sam buckles and the silence lifts, the thin sound of Sam's panting breaths ringing in Dean's ears. He wavers, putting a hand to the cold forest floor to steady himself, before getting to his feet and stumbling over to Sam.  
  
He's kneeling on the ground, hunched over a little with his hands clenched on his chest, but his eyes are clear when he blinks at Dean, familiarity in the lines of his face.  
  
"What was that?" Dean asks, offering Sam a hand up.  
  
"Don't know," Sam pants. "That's why we're out here." He takes Dean's hand gratefully, charms clinking around his neck as he stands up. "Guess these didn't help that much." He hisses when Dean prods at his temple, fingertips coming back bloody.  
  
"You hit your head?" Dean asks, pulling Sam forward so he can look at it. A brief moment of inspection reveals a small cut, hardly any bruising. "You'll live."  
  
"Thanks," Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he weaves more than a small bump on the head warrants. When they get back to the house, he's pliant enough that Dean walks him up the stairs and has him sit on the closed toilet seat so he can dab hydrogen peroxide over the cut and put tape over it, then tilts Sam's head up to the light and watches only one of his pupils contract.  
  
"How the heck did you get a concussion from a tree root?" he mutters and Sam just swallows and closes his eyes. "You gonna puke?"  
  
"Maybe." Sam swallows again and lifts a hand to his neck. "Feels like I got hit in the head with a brick."  
  
Dean fits his fingers over Sam's scalp tentatively, probing at the base of his skull. Sam hisses as Dean's fingers brush a lump and pulls back. "I don't get it, you were fine five minutes ago."  
  
Sam stands up, lifts up the toilet seat, and vomits.  
  
"Guess not."  
  
Dean gets Sam in bed with ice packs down his neck and spine and wakes him up every hour for the rest of the day. After Sam falls asleep for the third time, Dean makes a call to the clinic and describes Sam's symptoms.  
  
"Sounds like it's a concussion all right. Keep him iced and give him Advil if he asks for it. He'll be sore for a few days and he'll probably look like he got in a fight with the wrong end of a stick, but he'll live."  
  
"I was there, Doc. He tripped over a tree root, barely hit his head. By the time we got back to the house it was like he fell down a flight of stairs."  
  
Doctor Connor sighs over the phone. "I don't know what to tell you, Dean. Keep an eye on him for the next twelve hours. If he doesn't get any better, bring him in and I'll check him out."  
  
The next time Sam wakes up, Dean swaps out his ice packs and says, "You know I get it, Sam. I do. I watched Dad try to be a civilian, stay in one place so we could finish high school, work a steady job to keep food on the table. It used to scare me the way he looked when he found a hunt--relieved. Like he had a purpose again. I know why he couldn't do it, the small-town stuff. But it didn't stop me from wanting him to try."  
  
"I am trying," Sam says, face mashed into the pillow. His back is already coloring, mottled black and blue, and Dean shakes his head.  
  
"Going out there today wasn't trying. Following your visions in the name of helping people isn't trying."  
  
"I can't explain it--"  
  
"I'm not asking you to explain it," Dean snaps, "I'm asking you to stop."  
  
Sam's face is hidden by the shadows but Dean can see his jaw tic and his hands curl around his pillow--classic signs that Sam's getting ready for a fight. He doesn't answer, though, just stays facedown, sore and miserable, until Dean wearily picks up the ice packs and goes back downstairs.  
  
-  
  
Sam has another episode that night. Dean watches with macabre fascination as Sam goes downstairs and out the front door. He walks out to the flat expanse behind the house, bare feet sinking through the snow's crust. Dean shivers, hands jammed in his armpits, but Sam's stock-still, not a tremor running through him. He doesn't feel the cold maybe--Dean's never asked--but if Dean had found him an hour or so later he'd be crying and Dean would have had to swat his clutching hands away so he could look at Sam's feet and worry about frostbite. Sam's silent now, though, immobile as he looks up at the stars. Dean approaches slowly, his own teeth chattering.  
  
"Pretty, aren't they?"  
  
It's the first time Sam's said anything to him in the middle of an episode and for a minute Dean freezes, sure that it's just him and Sam there, nothing wrong with him. But the eerie way Sam tilts his head and the set of his shoulders tells Dean that whatever is talking to him right now isn't fully his brother.  
  
"They're out of orbit," Sam continues. "They've been in sync for nearly two millennia and now not one of them is hung right. And you." Sam turns to Dean and as much as Dean wants to look away, he can't. "You won't let me move them back. Why, Dean?"  
  
"C'mon, Sam." Dean puts a hand out for his brother's arm, trying to look reassuring. "C'mon, let's go inside. Okay? This isn't you, we'll go inside and get you...get you warmed up."  
  
"Why are you crying?" Sam asks, sliding a hand across Dean's face. "Why does it make you sad? You act angry but--"  
  
"Come on, Sam."  
  
"The snow. And the stars. Is it them? Why--" Sam's looking around him now, his voice rising as he struggles his way through his subconscious. Dean knows what's coming and hurries Sam faster. "Dean? Dean, how--"  
  
They get through the door and then Sam's in a heap on the ground, making sharp pained sounds and gasping like the wind's been knocked out of him. "What happened?" he asks. Shivers rack his spine. "Dean."  
  
"Shh, it's okay. It wasn't even a bad one. Short, sweet, you were gone maybe five minutes. Okay? Sam. All right? No, don't touch your feet-- Sam, don't, just let--"  
  
Sobs wrench Sam's shoulders and Dean lets go of Sam's wrists, trapping them between their bodies as he lunges forward and pulls Sam's face to his chest, reaching around Sam to span his back with an arm, his hand combed through Sam's hair.  
  
"Sam, we're gonna be okay. It's all right; we're gonna be okay. Come out of it, buddy, that's good. Nothing's going to happen."  
  
"It is," Sam gets out. "It is, it's _worse_. I am trying, I am, but I can't control it, I can't stop it. I just want-- Why won't it stop? I want it to stop."  
  
Dean shakes his head fiercely, rocking them both back and forth. "I don't know. I don't know." His face feels tight, brittle, like his jaw will crack if he keeps clenching it this tight. He's suddenly irrationally angry at Heaven, at Castiel, at whatever did this to Sam, to them, at whatever reason Sam has to fall to this after all he's struggled through. "You said no to the Devil," he whispers harshly. "You get to say no to this."  
  
-  
  
The next day there's no talk of what happened. Sam drags out a box of Christmas lights from who knows where and spends the morning laying the bulbs out in neat strings on the snow, ignoring Dean when he comes out to watch.  
  
"This is dumb, you know that."  
  
"If you're not going to help, go back in the house." Sam stretches to carefully tap a nail into the roofline. He wraps the string of lights around the nail, bulbs clinking softly, and moves on to the next one. Dean crosses his arms, surveying the effect with distaste. The bulbs are chipped, the colors peeling off the glass, and he'd bet the Impala not a few won't light up at all.  
  
Sam taps in another nail.  
  
Dean goes to help him.  
  
-  
  
After that, it's like Sam has decided to take the Christmas season by storm. Carol invites him over to help with cookies and when Dean makes his way over there to find out what's taking Sam so long it's to find that Sam is making a list of the cookies he thinks Carol should make. It'd be annoying from anyone but Sam and Carol only laughs and says that her grandson would appreciate Sam's taste.  
  
One day Dean comes home expecting to find Sam either at the Finley's or, God forbid, out wandering in the snow somewhere. Instead, he opens the front door and is confronted by Burl Ives's "Holly Jolly Christmas" blasting from the radio in the kitchen. Sam's perched on a bar stool, socked feet hanging from the rungs, tapping a pen in time with the music as he edits papers, completely unperturbed.  
  
"Seriously?" Dean asks.  
  
"We're behind schedule, man, half the town has been playing this stuff since Thanksgiving."  
  
"And the other half?"  
  
"Are Grinches."  
  
"So we're citizens of Whoville?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
Sam doesn't seem apologetic about it either, which probably explains the wreath on the door. Dean makes a face at it but doesn't take it down. What he doesn't know is that Sam's only just getting started.  
  
-  
  
Saturdays are for coffee and breakfast at eleven o'clock. Saturdays are for shuffling around the house in sweats. Saturdays are for football games and starting wars for the TV remote. But most of all, Saturdays are for _sleeping in_.  
  
"Not getting up at the crack of dawn to hunt down some lame tree," Dean grumbles, cradling his coffee while Sam prints out directions to a tree lot.  
  
"It's not that bad."  
  
"There's snow."  
  
Sam eyes Dean skeptically.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, there's always snow," he mutters. "Should've just chopped down one of the trees out back, there's plenty of 'em out there."  
  
"It's not the same. Tree lots are part of the season."  
  
"Tree lots," Dean argues, "are for people who don't have perfectly good pine trees sitting in their backyard."  
  
Sam throws the truck keys at Dean and zips up his coat. So they go.  
  
They drive to Leesburg, pull into the lot and get out, Dean making a face as he brushes past a tree and sap sticks to his jacket. "See? Snow." He points at a tree with clumps of white on its branches.  
  
"So we brush it off before we load it in the truck."  
  
"Still gonna get everywhere."  
  
"Dean, I have seen you fall asleep with sewage in your hair. You do not get to whine about snow."  
  
"It's a free country," Dean counters. A mom and her three kids move through the lot a row away and Dean elbows Sam when he hears the youngest complain that he's cold. Sam rolls his eyes.  
  
"Yeah, Dean. From an eight year old."  
  
Dean makes a face. "Let's just get this over with."  
  
"Good idea." Sam pulls at a pine nearly as tall as him, gives it a good turn, and then puts it back.  
  
"Hey, hey, what's wrong with that one?"  
  
"It's all bent on one side."  
  
Dean looks skyward. "My god, this is going to take forever, isn't it? Just grab a tree, man, any tree. There's a hundred here, they're all green and needle-y, they've all got enough sap to keep a zombie in a coffin--"  
  
"Nice. Way to be incognito."  
  
"I'm just saying, this is dumb and I can think of a million better ways to spend my Saturday."  
  
"Hey." Sam points at the gate. "Some kid got ran over by the entrance here once. You want me to go check that out or would you rather we pick a tree?"  
  
"Lead on," Dean grumbles.  
  
-  
  
It's noon by the time Sam (finally) picks a tree well over six feet tall and declares it perfect and by then Dean gladly pays the price and tosses it into the bed of the truck. Once they get home, it takes them a good half hour to wrestle the tree out of the bed and through the front door, and another fifteen minutes to coax it into the tree stand in the living room. It's still a little crooked when Dean throws up his hands and declares it good enough but Sam's grinning and _here_ , which, Dean admits, was the whole point.  
  
"So? What do you think?" asks Sam.  
  
"Fantastic," Dean says, rolling his eyes, but he means it as much as he hates to admit it. The tree really is something. Seven feet of dark green needles releasing the scent of pine every time Sam brushes a hand over its branches. The room is practically filled by it.  
  
"I think it looks really good. Now all we've got to do is decorate it."  
  
Dean rears his head back but doesn't say anything. A wing of Sam's hair is sticking out to the side, probably held there by sap from when he crept on his belly to put the tree in the stand while Dean balanced the top and he's grinning wide enough to hide the hollows in his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. For a minute, he looks twenty-two again, still fresh-faced from Stanford with a law interview lined up for the next day.  
  
The words come out of his mouth before Dean can stop himself. "You and Jessica ever have a tree?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Yeah, once. Wasn't real, though. Some plastic thing she dug up in the landlord's basement, paid him five bucks for it and dragged it up to our apartment."  
  
"You guys decorate it?"  
  
"Look, Dean, if you don't want to do this, just say the word. We don't have to decorate it. Heck, we don't even have to have a tree. We can take it down right now, no harm no foul."  
  
"I didn't say that," Dean says quickly.  
  
"Dean." Sam's face is serious. "Do you want the tree?"  
  
His voice is even, face carefully neutral, and for a minute Dean's chest clenches at the idea of what Sam could have been, if he'd just stayed away, if Dad hadn't gone missing, if Mary hadn't died. He's trying to let Dean decide, not giving away what he wants, and Dean sees right through the whole thing. Sam wants this tree. He wants this holiday, wants Christmas so bad he can taste it, heaven knows why--and isn't it ironic that the last time they pulled out all the stops for this holiday it was Dean who wanted it so bad and Sam who dug in his heels?  
  
The thought sobers Dean right up.  
  
The last time he'd wanted Christmas this bad he had only a year to live.  
  
"Sam?" Dean says, his throat suddenly tight. He looks down at the floor, then back up to where Sam is watching him, waiting. "Sam." He swallows. "Are you dying?"  
  
For a moment, the only sound in the room is Dean breathing. Then Sam inhales sharply and says, "I'm still saying no, Dean." He looks away. "It's just a tree. Forget it."  
  
"No." Dean steps forward, pushing his hands into the branches. "No, I want it."  
  
"Are you sure?" Sam asks. "Because I don't want you holding this over my head and you will, I know you will. It'll come out one day and you'll expect me to feel guilty and--"  
  
"I want it." Dean looks up at the top branches, craning his head. "I want it. We're decorating it."  
  
He looks over and Sam is watching him. "Okay," Sam says quietly.  
  
-  
  
It doesn't come up again.  
  
Sam acts just like he always does, shaving to off-key Christmas carols in the mornings, jamming on that stupid red beanie whenever he goes to the grocery store. They drive to the next town to pick up parts for the garage and Sam turns the radio on to Christmas songs and leaves his hand over the knob when Dean complains.  
  
"You sound like a dying cat," he says and digs an elbow into Sam's side, jogging Sam's fingers so they slide on the dial and the volume jumps. The truck's cab is filled with the sound of Rudolph's tragedy and Sam leans in, yelling the words. Dean curses and shoves Sam back, grabbing at the knob and turning the volume down to a manageable level. The grin on Sam's face doesn't disappear, though. Neither does the ache in Dean's chest.  
  
Over the next week, Christmas finds its way into their house. A huge red bow is wrapped around the wreath, disrupting whatever delicate balance the wreath had. It knocks Dean's shoulder whenever he comes in and he gripes about it constantly but leaves the damn thing up.  
  
Another bow decorates their mailbox. When Dean threatens to take a knife to it, Sam laughs and three bulbs explode in a shower of colored glass. Dean counts that as a win.  
  
Somewhere Sam digs up a box of bells and hangs them on every door. It's kind of nice to hear their quiet jingle, Dean only admits to himself, but it's downright annoying when Sam's doing laundry and keeps slamming the breezeway door on his way to the garage, bearing loads of clothes back and forth. He's about to snap at Sam to take the bell off the side door until he's done when understanding hits like a load of bricks.  
  
"These are about your episodes, aren't they?" Dean accuses when Sam walks in again. Sam raises his eyebrows and sets down the laundry basket, taking in the fistful of bells Dean is holding. "They're supposed to help me keep track of you when you get dragged outside to who knows where."  
  
"Look, they're just decorations. If you don't want 'em, we can take them down."  
  
"You know what, cut the crap. I'm done with it."  
  
Sam shakes out his shoulders and meets Dean's eyes. "All right. Fine. Yeah, they're for my episodes. I figured maybe they'd help."  
  
Dean sets the bells down, ignoring their discordant jangle. "Sam, are you sure we're doing the right thing for you here?"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"I'm talking about saying no."  
  
Sam's shaking his head before Dean finishes the sentence.  
  
"Sam, listen to me. It's different now, it's--"  
  
"It's not different," Sam says firmly. "It's not. Missouri told us months ago that it was either yes or no. All this comes with no. We knew that."  
  
"We thought there'd be something out there."  
  
"And there's not."  
  
"So we figure out a new game plan and do what works! Sam, you are _dying_ ," Dean says in a rush. Sam hasn't moved, like he didn't even hear. "You're dying," he says again and Sam's face does change, then, his eyes going soft.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
"And later?" Dean pushes. "If nothing comes up. If you keep...not doing great."  
  
Sam takes a step forward. "Dean," he says quietly, "this has to stop. We're not going down that road."  
  
"What road?"  
  
"The one where we always sacrifice ourselves for each other. The one where we act like idiots and can't just deal like normal people."  
  
"Name one time in our lives that we've ever been normal."  
  
"Exactly," Sam says. "So we're starting now. If that happens, if things don't go...according to plan. I go out, that's it, end of story."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "I can't do that."  
  
"You have to, Dean. It's the only way this thing is going to work. One of us has to make it."  
  
"It doesn't have to be this way, Sam."  
  
"Yeah." Sam straightens. "It does."  
  
"Why?" Dean spits. "Because you said so?"  
  
Sam nods. "Yeah. Because I said so."  
  
"That's--"  
  
And Sam's hand flies to his head.  
  
"Oh come on, we're doing this now?" Dean says, putting a hand on Sam's arm. "Sam. If you're messing with me..."  
  
Sam steadies himself on the counter but keeps one hand pressed to his temple. "I'm not. I'm..." He jerks away, eyes distant. "I have to go."  
  
"Sam, wait. Where?"  
  
"Burial ground," Sam gets out and then he's gone.  
  
-  
  
Snow is falling in bitter flakes from an iron-gray sky. Dean skids across a patch of ice on their walkway, plunging into the snow after Sam. Half a second's delay and he's yards behind Sam who can outrun Dean on his best day. Sam stumbles twice, the second time ending on his knees in the snow, but then his head snaps up and he runs with single-minded purpose, every movement calculated, poised. Breath whistling out of his lungs, Dean compares this Sam to the one that groped in the air like he was following a string and realizes--Sam isn't using his powers right now. He's overcome by them. Sam jerks and falls again, long enough for Dean to catch up.  
  
"Sam," he says, putting a hand on Sam's back. Sam clambers to his feet.  
  
"Don't st--" The words dry up and his face goes blank even as Dean watches. His eyes slide from Dean's face to the field and he's off again.  
  
"Sam," Dean tries again but Sam doesn't stumble and he doesn't turn. He plunges on, a dark figure in the middle of the stark white field, and Dean follows until Sam stops at the far corner and lifts his palm.  
  
Dean doesn't see anything, but he feels it when Sam closes his fist and pulls it to his chest, icy flakes flurrying from the sky like Sam's pulling them straight down. The air goes tight, freezing in Dean's lungs and drawing his eyelids shut, and then Sam gasps and it's over. When he opens his eyes, Sam is on the ground, snow tangling in his hair. Whatever he was fighting is gone.  
  
Dean steps forward and puts a cautious hand on Sam's back, and when Sam doesn't shrug him off, he helps Sam to his feet. "Did you get it?" he asks and Sam pants, "No."


	8. Chapter 8

The snow keeps falling as they walk back to the house, Sam a listing weight against Dean's side. He's doing his part, Dean knows, focus narrowed to Dean's encouragement and keeping his balance, but it takes twice as long to leave the field as it did to get to it and by the time he gets Sam on the couch and pulls off his shoes, Sam's skin is white, temperature plunging the way it does after an episode.  
  
"Hold on here, let me get the hair dryer."  
  
He pats Sam on the shin and goes upstairs, pulls out the hair dryer and heating pad, then drags the quilt from his bed for good measure. Sam is sitting up when he comes down not five minutes later.  
  
"Hey, you want to give me a ha--" The words die in Dean's mouth at the look on Sam's face. "What?"  
  
Sam doesn't say anything. He pushes himself up from the couch on shaky legs, holding the TV remote in his hand like he's going to use it to beat Dean over the head with it, and it'd be kind of hilarious except for the fact that Sam is looking at Dean without a shred of recognition and he has bruises under his eyes that weren't there before.  
  
"Sam?" Dean takes a careful step forward and Sam staggers back two.  
  
"Stop," Sam says. "Stop for a second."  
  
Dean freezes in place. "Sam?" he says quietly. "You know who I am?"  
  
Sam studies his face, eyes narrowed, and Dean waits.  
  
Then Sam says, "I think so."  
  
"Dean," Dean says, watching Sam's face clear. "Your brother."  
  
Sam looks at him for a moment, then nods, giving a shaky laugh. He follows when Dean leads him to the couch, leaning forward to pull in deep breaths. "Holy crap."  
  
"Fun times, huh?"  
  
"Feels like I've got the headache of the century." Sam runs a hand through his hair and then knits them together in his lap. The bruises are still under his eyes, his face still pale although he stopped shivering. Dean tosses the quilt over Sam, then sits next to him on the couch and puts his boots on the coffee table, dragging a hand over his face.  
  
"What the hell was that?" he says after a while.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"That's never happened. I mean, forgetting things, all the time, but-- That's never happened. You've never forgotten me."  
  
Sam shakes his head.  
  
Dean swallows, pulling at a thread on the quilt. "What about you?"  
  
Sam gives a hollow laugh. "What about me?"  
  
"I mean, are you forgetting yourself?"  
  
Sam looks at Dean and spreads his hands. "I don't know, am I? Most of the time I don't even remember I've forgotten anything unless you remind me."  
  
"What about that time down in Tampa? Dad bought us ice cream and we went down to the beach and you buried me in sand."  
  
Sam considers for a minute, then his face goes still. "No."  
  
"What's your favorite kind of pie?"  
  
"Pumpkin," Sam answers promptly. "Jess made one once with her mom's recipe."  
  
"When was Jess's birthday?"  
  
Sam's forehead furrows. "I remember celebrating it," he says slowly. "It was sometime in the beginning of the year. We had this huge cake one time and I put a bunch of candles on it to make her mad."  
  
Dean says quietly, "What day was it?"  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Come on, man," Dean coaxes. "Sure you do. It's the same as mine."  
  
"I don't. I swear I don't know. It's like this big black hole up there. Like acid ate through everything." Sam makes a face. "Guess my powers really are eating my brain."  
  
"You're going to joke at a time like this?"  
  
"I don't know what else to do, man. Freak out? Shoot something? Dean, I'm scared. The only thing I know for sure when I wake up in the mornings is that I'm losing stuff. It scares me because I'm fine. I mean, I'm walking around and I don't know anything's wrong." He shakes his head. "I don't even know what I'm missing."  
  
-  
  
Sam is in and out of it for the rest of the weekend, never coherent for long enough that Dean feels comfortable leaving him alone. He has Sam call in sick for his shift at Stairway, which turns out to be good because Dean spends most of Saturday reminding Sam who he is and most of Sunday trying to keep Sam from wandering outside in the snow. Finally, Dean decides enough is enough, bundles Sam into the truck, and drives him to the church.  
  
This particular church stands on a hill, spire pointed toward the sky, candle-lit altar ready to receive their prayers, their confessions, their fears. It's everything Dean might have scoffed at a few years ago; now it's the only haven they know. Marge is there sometimes but she stays out of their way. Sometimes it takes Sam a little while to come out of it and Dean finds himself in the front pew while Sam walks the perimeter of the church, looking through the stained-glass windows. Every once in a while he hears Sam whisper--in Latin, Enochian, English--as his subconscious fights its way back to reality.  
  
Sam finally stops in front of the altar, shoulders slumped just a little. He blinks slowly, staring at nothing, and Dean calls to him.  
  
"Hey. Come sit over here with me."  
  
Sam's head turns slowly, stiffness still threaded throughout his joints, but he obeys.  
  
A soft scuff comes from the other end of the church. Dean turns, expecting to see Marge, but it's another woman, smiling apologetically.  
  
"I'm sorry," she says, "but we're going to have to set up for a funeral in a half hour or so."  
  
"We'll head out of here in a minute," Dean says, putting a hand on Sam's neck. Sam nods, fingers knotted, then ducks his head. Still coming out of it, then. The woman smiles at them both and ducks out, leaving them alone in the sanctuary. After a few minutes Sam slumps, the pew creaking, and rests his hands on his thighs.  
  
"How you doing?" Dean asks.  
  
"Feel like I've had my head underwater all week."  
  
"It's been a couple of days. You weren't getting any better so I figured you needed a boost to help shrug this one off."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Don't mention it." Dean slaps his hand on Sam's thigh, laughing at Sam's wince.  
  
The sky is white with the threat of snow when they exit the church. Dean's about to comment on it when Sam says, "Wait a sec," and doubles back. Dean watches him say a few words to the woman and take one of a program from the basket she's carrying. His face is dark, brows drawn together, and he slams the truck door when he gets in.  
  
"What was that about?" Dean asks.  
  
Sam hands him the program. Dean lets the truck idle as he studies it for a minute, taking in the smiling face of a young girl.  
  
"This supposed to mean something to me?"  
  
"Her name was Julie," Sam says. "She died on Friday. Of cancer."  
  
It doesn't make sense until Dean thinks about Sam running into the field and then not being able to keep anything down for the next few days, Sam with his sunken eyes, Sam forgetting Dean. Suddenly his throat is too tight, the air stifling.  
  
"You almost-- Sam, you almost--"  
  
"But I didn't," Sam says. "None of them killed me." He takes back the program and crumples it. "Reapers. That's what I've been hunting. All this time and I've been messing with reapers."  
  
"You were taking their deaths," Dean says. "Every time you went out there, every time you tangled with one of them, you were taking their deaths." He shakes his head, pinning Sam with his eyes. "This has to stop. I mean it. This has to stop now."  
  
To his surprise, Sam doesn't put up a fight. "I know. I didn't mean... I just wanted to help. But I can't play God. I can't interfere like this." He slides his hands down his thighs and folds his mouth into a half-smile. "Guess you got what you wanted. No more hunting."  
  
For some reason, the words don't loosen the ball of worry in Dean's gut.  
  
-  
  
Sam goes back to work on Monday. When Dean comes in and takes his usual place at the bar, Joanne brings him a beer on the house. "Glad to see he's doing better," she says and Dean can't do more than nod.  
  
To the rest of the world, Sam is doing better. He shovels the Finley's driveway and walks Kara from the high school like he used to. He and Abby spend Sam's evenings off with her thesis spread over the coffee table in the living room, either arguing the finer points of her paper or following tangents while Dean sits at the kitchen counter with the laptop, researching cleansing rituals. Sam gives him a dark look when he comes in to make pop tarts for he and Abby, but he doesn't say anything.  
  
Then Sam comes downstairs one night, blanket drawn around his shoulders, to where Dean is sprawled across the couch, lit by the warm glow of the lamp.  
  
"What're you doing up?" he asks.  
  
"Reading." Dean lifts the book in question, sitting up when Sam pulls it from his hands. "Hey!"  
  
Sam flips through the book, brow furrowed. "Why are you reading this?" he asks quietly.  
  
"Well, I'm not anymore, since my idiot brother took it," Dean gripes, getting to his feet stiffly. "Come on, let's go to bed."  
  
"Dean." Sam hasn't moved. He's still holding the book, long fingers tight around its fraying binding. "There's no point in reading this. There's not a cure. We've looked."  
  
Dean shrugs and meets Sam's eyes. "We haven't looked in there."  
  
"Dean," Sam repeats. "Don't do this to yourself." He takes a step forward when Dean looks away. "I mean it, man. I know what it's like and I'm telling you, there's always going to be another book. There's always going to be somewhere we haven't looked."  
  
"If you think I'm going to give this up, Sam, I'm not."  
  
"I gave up hunting."  
  
"Doesn't stop you from reading the obits every day, though, does it?" Dean counters. "Well, that was your hunt. This is mine. You can go ahead and make everyone in town think everything's hunky dory, but I know better. Your powers aren't taking a back seat. Neither am I."  
  
"I'm not going to watch you kill yourself over this."  
  
Dean snorts. "Reading isn't deadly last time I checked."  
  
"You're not sleeping. You think I haven't noticed? You haven't gotten more than a few hours a night for almost a month. You're gonna wear yourself out."  
  
"Guess that's my choice to make then, isn't it?"  
  
Sam chews the inside of his cheek and nods to himself. He puts the book down on the coffee table between them. "Guess it is," Sam says. "Guess we all have our choices to make." His face is cast in shadows from the lamplight, darkness pooling under his cheekbones and the hollow of his throat. He's still tired, Dean can see that, worn out from the constant pressure of whatever's going on in his skull, but there's something in the way he's holding himself that's different.  
  
"What'd you come down here for?" Dean asks and suddenly Sam is just Sam again, shrugging a shoulder so the blanket slides up.  
  
"Came down to look up some stuff for Abby's thesis. I think one of the sources I gave her the other day might be wrong."  
  
Dean's eyebrows jump. "You do know that this is her thesis, right? She's a bright kid, she's gonna do fine."  
  
"I know, I just...I want her to do well."  
  
"I thought it wasn't due until next semester. What is that, like, four months away?"  
  
"Four months isn't that long."  
  
"If you haven't started the darn thing, then yeah, but she's practically finished." He narrows his eyes at Sam. "What's the rush?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Nothing. You're right." He nods to the lamp. "You turning that off or what?"  
  
"Or what," Dean mutters but he flicks the lamp off and follows Sam upstairs.  
  
-  
  
It's cold, even in the middle of the day, and Sam breathes out long and low to see his breath crystalize in the air. The snow crunches under his boots as he heads to the tattered remains of what was going to be a vegetable garden. The stakes are half-buried in the snow and the twine is long gone. It'll probably be unrecognizable by the time the snow melts and spring comes, Sam thinks grimly, then shakes his head. This isn't what he came here to do.  
  
"Castiel."  
  
The wait is longer this time, long enough that Sam crouches in the snow and unearths the stakes and what's left of the twine, brushes the snow off of them and carries them back to the house to toss behind the garage. Castiel is waiting when he turns back, looking down at the disturbed snow curiously, but if he wants to know why Sam took out the stakes he doesn't say.  
  
"Your nose is red," he observes instead.  
  
Sam drags a hand across it and huffs a laugh. "Thanks, Cas."  
  
"You do know that I can just as easily meet you inside as I can out here," Castiel says wryly and Sam nods.  
  
"I know but Dean has some sort of sixth-sense about who comes into our house while he's gone."  
  
"And you don't want him to know that I'm here," Castiel finishes. Sam shifts, straightening his shoulders, and Castiel sighs. "What is it you wanted to ask me, Sam?"  
  
"Last time we talked I asked you to promise to stick around."  
  
"In the spring, you said."  
  
"Yeah." Sam nods. "I just wanted to remind you."  
  
Castiel narrows his eyes. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Nothing. I just want to make sure everything's ready."  
  
"You sound as if you won't be here."  
  
Sam laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "That's because I won't. Either way, dead or alive, I won't be here. Not really."  
  
Castiel takes a step forward. "You promised Dean you would say no."  
  
"I am, I'm not going back on that. But it's not a one-time thing. I keep saying no until I can't say no anymore, or I'm dead. Whichever comes first."  
  
"What are you doing, Sam?" Castiel asks again, voice lower.  
  
Sam spreads his hands then lets them fall to his side. "That's for me to know and you to find out."  
  
"You are very like your brother sometimes."  
  
"Guess so. Neither of us are willing to let the other person save us."  
  
"And this is you saving Dean?"  
  
"This is me making sure Dean's got something to save. So," Sam shrugs, "in a way, yes."  
  
Castiel hesitates before asking, "Are you sure this is wise, Sam?"  
  
"Let me worry about that."  
  
-  
  
He stands in the snow a little while after Castiel leaves, just breathing and watching the fog of his breath dissipate in the air. A squirrel chatters on one of the bare branches, then whisks down the trunk and into a hollow. He still has an hour or so before his first meeting at the high school, so he walks to the Finleys and gets there in time to take over putting together a child's rocking chair for Dale.  
  
"Libby's having another baby," Dale announces proudly. "Little girl this time. Carol's set on dressing up the guest bedroom upstairs for her."  
  
Sam rights the rocking chair and brushes off the seat. "Looks like she's a little ahead of herself."  
  
"Oh, that's Carol for you. Already planning 'weekends at Grandma's,'" he grumbles but his eyes linger on the baby bunnies painted on the chair's seat.  
  
It comes to Sam in a flash.  
  
"Katherine June," he says and grins despite the pressure behind his eyes. "I'll bet you anything she's going to be sick of pink by the time she's three."  
  
Dale's worn face is slack with surprise. "Carol just told me yesterday that Libby wanted to call her Kate. Ron hasn't even agreed... How did you...?"  
  
Sam gets to his feet, listing a little. "Tell Carol thanks for the coffee. I've got to get going, I've got a tutoring session."  
  
He lets Dale walk him out and shake his hand, calls goodbye to Carol from the front door. He can feel Dale watching him as he walks down the road, right until he rounds the bend.  
  
-  
  
Dean is pulled from sleep by a cold breeze that traces its way over his shin and draws goosebumps on his skin. He sits up and feels for the blankets he kicked off during the night, glancing over at Sam's empty bed, and then puts his head in his hands and swears. He slides out of bed, puts on his jacket and grabs Sam's, the faint sound of bells tinkling in the back of his mind as he heads downstairs. He doesn't have to make a round of the house. The front door's wide open, the bell hung from the handle clinking softly in the night breeze.  
  
When he finds Sam, his brother isn't even wearing shoes.  
  
"D-D-Dean," he stutters, looking utterly miserable.  
  
"Sammy?" Dean approaches carefully. "You got it under control?"  
  
Sam nods jerkily. "Too cold. C-couldn't come in."  
  
"What, you're gonna let a little slush keep you from doing what you want?" Dean grins but it's a ploy and they both know it. "Third time this week, man. We've got to stop meeting like this."  
  
"Ha," Sam says, bracing himself against Dean's shoulder and hobbling with him to the front door. He pauses at the doorway, looking back at their tracks in the snow, then past, to the white frame of their mailbox and the dark pines bordering the end of the street.  
  
"What?" Dean asks, turning too.  
  
"Saw something," Sam says.  
  
"Is it still there?"  
  
Sam shakes his head. He doesn't protest when Dean swings the door shut and locks it, the bell on the handle clanking against the wood.  
  
"Come on. Hair dryer."  
  
-  
  
It's the last episode for a while, the reprieve lasting long enough that they both get some regular sleep, but when they talk, Sam's eyes still pull to the empty space over Dean's shoulder, and when he picks Sam up from the high school, Sam looks behind him as he gets in the truck.  
  
"What is it?" Dean asks, checking his side mirror before pulling into the road.  
  
Sam doesn't ask what he means, just shrugs. "Not sure yet. Haven't really gotten a good look."  
  
"Don't give me that. You have some sort of idea, otherwise you would've just told me. So what is it?" Dean cuts a look at Sam. "Huh? You've stopped hunting, no more burial ground."  
  
"It's not that."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
"There are still reapers in the field." Before Dean asks, Sam says, "I haven't been out there, but I can tell. And I think--" He breaks off, chewing on his lip.  
  
A chill runs down Dean's spine. "What?"  
  
"I think maybe they're not just in the field."  
  
"Not just in the--" Dean's eyes widen. "A reaper? That's what you've been seeing?" When Sam doesn't answer, Dean jerks the wheel, pulling to the side of the road and slamming on the brakes. "Answer me, Sam. Is that what you're telling me? A reaper's been trailing you this whole time?"  
  
"I wasn't sure," Sam mutters.  
  
"How could you not be sure? Given our experience, you should be a friggin' expert."  
  
"You know they can appear however they want," Sam says. "It's their rule book, that's how they play."  
  
"And now one of 'em's got you in his sights. Is there anything else you haven't told me? Seeing any white lights at the end of a dark tunnel?"  
  
"It's not a joke."  
  
"Damn straight, it's not." Dean looks out the windshield, hands flexing around the steering wheel. "All right. Here's what we do. We're going to wait this out and you've got to stay grounded, which means you quit Stairway, quit tutoring. I want you all hands on deck, no fading out, no messing with anything."  
  
Sam's lips quirk. "Are you putting me on supernatural lockdown?"  
  
"You got any better ideas?"  
  
"It's worth a shot. I'm not being chased, just...followed."  
  
"Well, let's keep it that way. I mean it, though, you're going to have to keep a tight reign on things. Let the reapers know you're not going anywhere."  
  
Sam gives a small smile as Dean pulls back on the road. "I'm not going anywhere," he repeats.  
  
-  
  
Two casseroles show up on their doorstep the day after Sam tells Joanne he has to quit and a steady flood of kids from the high school bring over Christmas cookies after Sam cancels his tutoring meetings. Dean quits answering the door--they ask for Sam every time anyway--but keeps a wary eye as Sam talks to everybody who comes by, giving them the usual spiel: he's fine, just under the weather, hopes to be back to normal in the spring. The kids buy it, hook line and sinker, but some of the parents gravely shake Sam's hand like he's going somewhere and it's the sad look on their faces that puts iron in Dean's spine once they've gone and it's him and Sam again.  
  
They don't see Sam like this, Dean thinks, eyes half-lidded as he curls up in Dean's spot on the couch, the hollows of his face shadowed, skin thin where his shirt gaps at his collarbone. It's been coming to this for a long time, Dean thinks, like water trickling down a hill. Slowly at first and then faster. Sam's holding on at this point. Not fighting, just holding on. Existing. Waiting.  
  
-  
  
Dean's on his back under the kitchen sink, an array of wrenches and screwdrivers scattered on the floor around him, when he hears Sam shout his name from upstairs. He hits his head sliding out from under the sink and sits up, swearing.  
  
 _"Dean!"_  
  
"Jeeze, Sam, what? What's wrong?"  
  
He almost collides with Sam in the doorway.  
  
"Dale," Sam says. "I think something--" His head jerks to the side just before a faint voice from outside calls their names.  
  
"The hell," Dean mutters. He keeps a hand clamped on Sam's arm and tows his brother to the front door, throwing it open to find Carol Finley running up their street with her house phone pressed to her ear.  
  
"Carol," Sam says, face washed white. He pulls away from Dean to put his hands on her frail shoulders, dwarfing her with his size. "Is he--"  
  
Carol talks like she didn't even hear him, half to them, half to the operator on the phone. "It's Dale. Dale, my husband. He fell, I think he's having a heart attack."  
  
"Where is he now?" Dean asks.  
  
"In the driveway," she says. "He was shoveling it and--"  
  
Dean puts a hand on Sam's back. "Stay with Carol."  
  
"No, Dean, no." Sam's eyes are intent on Dean, focused like they'd be jumping all over the place if Sam's control snaps. "I have to do this. I can do this."  
  
Realization washes over Dean and he pushes Sam back a step. "No. No."  
  
"Dean, listen to me. I'm the best chance he's got. I can buy him some time, at least until the ambulance gets here."  
  
"Sam, you're not," Dean growls, clutching fistfuls of Sam's shirt. Carol's sobbing in the background, trying to get out directions through her tears.  
  
"Stay with her," Sam says, focus already turned to the Finley's yard, and he slips from Dean's grip, long legs eating up the distance.  
  
Dean swears violently under his breath, hands balled into fists, then turns to take the phone from Carol. "This is Dean, Carol's neighbor. We're going to need an ambulance."  
  
-  
  
It starts snowing the minute Dale Finley gets loaded into the ambulance and doesn't stop for the rest of the week. One of the paramedics looks at Sam and asks to take his pulse but Sam won't let him and by then Carol is in the back of the ambulance, clutching Dale's hand, and they're ready to go. Sam's legs buckle halfway to their house and Dean hoists him over his shoulder and takes careful steps through the snow.  
  
He leaves Sam in bed later that night and drives to the hospital. Carol meets him by the sliding glass doors and can't do more than nod her thanks when he helps her into the truck and shuts the door behind her. She's aged ten years in a few hours, face drawn and worried.  
  
"They want to keep him for tests for a few days. They say he should be fine," she says. Her hands are twisted up in her scarf, fingers pulling fretfully at the fringe. "He's so stubborn," she says, the words nearly a whisper. "He never listens." She shakes her head to herself, then folds her mouth in a smile and says, "But you'd know something about that, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says, letting a smile steal across his face.  
  
They navigate their way from the dark highway to their town, then down their street. None of the lamps are lit in the Finley's big white house and a weight settles in Dean's chest at the idea of driving down the rest of the road to their house where Sam is there in the dark and probably not awake to know it.  
  
"He's going to be okay, right?" Dean asks.  
  
Carol is sitting in the idling truck, eyes fixed on her dark house like she's having the same thoughts as Dean. She turns to look at him when he speaks and leans over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "He's going to be just fine. Thank you for all your help."  
  
"I can drive you to the hospital tomorrow if you need me to," Dean offers.  
  
"No, no, I can drive myself," she answers. "But if you could keep an eye on the place this next week, at least until I get Dale home."  
  
"Sure. Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."  
  
Dean waits until she gets the front door open before lifting a hand and pulling away from their house.  
  
-  
  
The next morning he calls the garage and Grant tells him not to worry about coming in. Sam's awake, even if he doesn't look like he's up for more than a good round of Go Fish, and Dean keeps plying him with a steady flow of soup and crackers until Sam can come downstairs to curl up on the sofa and fall asleep watching football. The snow keeps falling steadily and Dean makes a show of bundling up to go shovel the Finley's walkway.  
  
"Congratulations," he tells Sam on the fourth day. "You've broken the state record for snowfall. The guys who run the snowplows are rioting for a raise and thanks to you we get to miss the town meeting about it."  
  
"It's not like we would've gone to a town meeting anyway," Sam says. He's cranked the heater high enough that Dean's comfortable in just a T-shirt, but Sam's dragged what looks like every blanket in the house to the couch. It's probably the girliest thing he's done yet, but he takes the spoon and bowl of soup from Dean's hands, eating it willingly enough, and Dean's in too good a mood to tease him. Instead, he settles himself in the chair he brought in from the kitchen and kicks his feet up on the couch.  
  
"To be honest, I don't know if anyone's going to show up. It's piled ridiculously high out there."  
  
Sam sets the spoon down and rests his head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. "I'd stop it if I could."  
  
"Sure you would."  
  
"I mean it," Sam insists, but his eyes are closing already, victim to the slow lethargy that steals Sam into sleep when he finally warms up.  
  
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, lifting the bowl from Sam's lax fingers before it tips on the blankets. "I just never knew you were such a freak about snow."  
  
Sam burrows into his blankets, sinking down to stretch over the length of the couch. "It's how I know for sure," he says, the words strung together by their vowels as Sam drops off to sleep. "Too cold to snow in the Cage."  
  
Dean freezes, fingers stuttering as he pulls the blankets over Sam's shoulders. It's a minute before he stands, pulling a hand down his face. "Hey, I'm gonna head out for a bit. Call if you need anything," he says and Sam gives a sleepy mumble.  
  
He leaves Sam's cell phone on the table and locks the door behind him. He doesn't know where he's headed but it makes some sort of sense that he finally pulls up in front of Stairway, neon dark in the windows. It's after hours but Joanne doesn't care, takes one look at his face and sets a bottle of tequila and a shot glass in front of him, then takes his keys. By the time he gets up to leave, the bottle is mostly gone and it's a foregone conclusion that Joanne's driving him home.  
  
"Feels like Sam," he slurs, pointing at the falling snow as she gets him into her car.  
  
"I know, hon," she says.  
  
"'M drunk," he says but she doesn't say anything about that. He is drunk--more drunk than he's ever been in his life, maybe, more drunk than he was ever allowed to be with John or even after. He's allowed now, though, he reflects as he presses his face to the window, one finger pressed to the glass to touch the snowflakes falling on the other side. He's allowed because he's weathered everything so far, he and Sam, everything the powers have thrown at them, but not once did he think to ask about Hell.  
  
-  
  
Dean wakes up the next day feeling like he's got one of Sam's blankets stuffed inside his skull. The blinds are shut but the light peeking in around the edges tell him that it's more afternoon than morning. Sam's bed is neatly made, which means he's doing good, and there's the low hum of voices from downstairs that gets him out of bed and down the hall.  
  
Abby gives a pointed look when he comes down in boxers and a T-shirt, rolling her eyes at his smirk. She's too good a friend for it to bother even Sam who ignores them both in favor of pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding liberal amounts of cream.  
  
"There any more of that?" Dean asks. Abby nudges his shoulder with her own mug until he takes it and sets it on the counter with his, dividing the remains of the pot between them. "So what's on the agenda today? Sleeping? Star Wars marathon? Hey, don't you have a plane to catch or something?" He points at Abby.  
  
"Nope," she says. "Not anymore."  
  
"What do you mean? Wednesday was your last final."  
  
"It was," Abby says, "but I'm staying at my aunt and uncle's for Christmas. My flight got cancelled because of all the snow. Dulles is completely shut down, actually. My aunt says she's never seen so much snow and she's lived in Virginia all her life."  
  
Sam's face looks stricken. "Your family's in Oregon."  
  
Abby shrugs. "It won't be that bad. It's not like I'm stranded with strangers or something. I mean, Pooles is my home for about half the year anyhow. I'll fly back over spring break and make them keep the tree until then. Stretch out the season."  
  
"Still, kinda sucks," Dean says. Sam levels a glare at him strong enough that Dean tries again. "But hey, your aunt and uncle are cool, right? So it's not like you're homeless or anything."  
  
"Come to our house," Sam cuts in. "We're having a party." Dean chokes on his coffee and Sam hits him a couple times on the back.  
  
"Really?" Abby asks.  
  
"Yeah. We've still got to work out the date and everything but I'll call you as soon as we figure it out. We figured we'd make it an open house kind of thing, invite the neighborhood."  
  
"Around here the neighborhood is the whole town." Abby hops off the stool, grinning, and picks up her messenger bag from the floor. "Count me in for the party. I've got to run, I've got to hit the school library before it closes for break, but I'll be around at six. Text if you want to get dinner or something."  
  
"See ya," Sam says and starts gathering their coffee mugs, studiously avoiding Dean's glare.  
  
Dean waits until he hears Abby's car start before he says, "You're kidding me, right?"  
  
"What's wrong with a Christmas party?"  
  
"I'll tell you what's wrong--we're not having one."  
  
"Why not?" Sam challenges.  
  
"Sam, nine out of ten times this month you've been out of your friggin' head. We're down to one income, we're barely making ends meet. No way we're throwing a damn party."  
  
"It doesn't have to be big. We don't have to cook everything, we can do it potluck style, have everybody bring a dish."  
  
"Who's everybody? Who would we even invite?"  
  
"All our friends."  
  
"We don't have friends."  
  
Sam lifts a hand and ticks off on his fingers. "Cary, Grant, Rick. All the guys from the garage."  
  
"They're not friends." Sam stares at him and Dean gives in. "Fine, they're friends but they're not _friends_. We don't share secrets and braid each other's hair."  
  
"I'd be worried if you did," Sam says.  
  
"But inviting a bunch of grease monkeys to a Christmas party? Sounds like hell in a hand basket."  
  
"It wouldn't be just them, we'd invite everybody. Abby. The Kims. The Finleys. Joanne and Kara. Pastor Dave and Marge."  
  
Dean holds up a hand. "Okay, okay, I get the picture. But that doesn't change the fact that you've just started getting your strength back. You take naps every afternoon. You go to sleep at eight."  
  
Sam's jaw firms. "I can handle it."  
  
"Sam, you can't. You really can't. And it's okay. But we're not doing a repeat of Thanksgiving."  
  
"I can do it this time," Sam insists, eyes following Dean as he pours out the dregs of his coffee in the sink.  
  
"Sam," Dean sighs. He rinses out his mug and puts it in the dishwasher. When he turns, Sam is leaning on the doorjamb, his posture relaxed but his words solid.  
  
"I want this."  
  
Dean straightens, studying Sam's face, and Sam, for once, lets him. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
The corner of Dean's mouth lifts. "This is such a bad idea." Sam's face lights up with the force of his grin and Dean raises his hands, hastening to add, "But this is not becoming a tradition, the great Winchester Christmas Fest."  
  
"Scout's honor," Sam promises.  
  
Dean is left stock-still in the kitchen, rigid because of what he just said.  



	9. Chapter 9

  
Sam bypasses invitations which relieves Dean to no end, preferring instead to let the invite go by word of mouth and a few phone calls. Dean doesn't expect a huge turnout since it's only a few days before Christmas, but the list of names Sam keeps by the phone keeps getting longer and not a few names have mysterious numbers next to them, indicating extra people who might come along. To Sam's credit, he does his best that week to get himself ready. He sleeps a solid twelve hours every night, testament to his exhaustion in keeping completely focused and present during the day. Dean can tell that the distractions are still running rampant but the reapers he doesn't know about until he asks.  
  
"Still there," Sam confirms. "Farther, though. She's not following as close."  
  
"She?" Dean asks.  
  
Sam's face folds. "She looks like Jess," he admits.  
  
Dean shakes his head, watching Sam's face. "Sam, are you sure we should be doing this?"  
  
"I want to," Sam says again.  
  
"I'm not risking you for a party, Sam. I mean it."  
  
Sam nods. "Don't worry. You won't be."  
  
-  
  
The evening of the party Sam does a final run-through of the house, making sure their shabby decorations are exactly as they should be. Then he does it again.  
  
Dean grabs him and keeps a grip on his arm the third time around, squeezing to get Sam's attention. "Sam."  
  
"I get it, I know, I just remembered one thing."  
  
"Well, fix that thing and then that's it." Sam nods distractedly and Dean squeezes tighter. "Hey, if we're doing this," he pauses, waiting for Sam to meet his eyes, "you're taking it easy. You hear me? I reserve the rights to pull the plug on this one. I see any trouble and that's it, party's over, everybody goes home."  
  
"I'm fine. Seriously. I just want everyone to have a good time."  
  
"Well, I'm telling you I can't have a good time if I'm worried you're going to do something stupid. So pay attention to the rules: no going crazy over things--we decorated, we cooked, we cleaned. There's no time to do anything else so having an aneurysm about it is not going to make it better. Second, you have to promise me you'll sit down and eat something. I mean, full plate, the works. If I have to embarrass us both by feeding you I will, but trust me, neither of us is going to enjoy it."  
  
Sam puts his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows. "Anything else?"  
  
"Yeah, don't worry about cleaning up tonight. I see you with a dirty dish in your hand, I'll break it."  
  
"The dish or the hand?"  
  
"Both."  
  
Sam's lips quirk like he wants to smile but he isn't folding that easy. "You done reading me the riot act?"  
  
Dean considers for a minute. "Yeah, I'm done." He stops Sam from walking away with a hand to his shoulder. "Seriously though. If there's a...problem. If this gets to be too much, just say the word. I'll kick 'em out, no questions asked."  
  
Sam's eyes are clear. "I'll be fine. I promise. I've got this."  
  
The doorbell rings and a grin breaks over Sam's face.  
  
"Showtime."  
  
-  
  
It's thirty minutes before Dean is able to excuse himself from the tangle of people and retreat to the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He's just taken a sip when Sam comes in from the other side, the door swinging in his wake.  
  
He pushes a hand through his hair and gives a small laugh. "Wow. What do you think?"  
  
"It's a lot of people."  
  
"It is a lot of people," Sam agrees, lifting the lid of the one of the pots on the stove. "I didn't expect this many, actually. I think the whole town decided to show up."  
  
Dean shrugs a shoulder. "If you build it..."  
  
"They will come, yeah, I got that. You hiding from Joanne's sister or what?"  
  
Dean snorts a laugh, watching Sam open the oven. "I don't know, man, I thinks she likes them tall, dark, and geeky."  
  
"Very funny. I told Joanne to get everybody gathered around the table so we could eat. If we wait much longer, the turkey's gonna be dry."  
  
"Want help getting stuff out of the oven?"  
  
"I've got it covered," Sam answers, shrugging on an apron and oven mitts big enough to cover even his gigantic hands, and pulling out the turkey with the same look of concentration that he uses to strip rifles.  
  
Looking back later, Dean has to admit that the whole thing was somewhat miraculous and wonders whether Sam was more in control of the situation than he let on: the cider is taken off the stove just before it burns, the turkey nearly slides from the roasting pan to the floor but detours onto the platter at the last moment, and somehow by the time they get all the food to the table it's still hot.  
  
Joanne was as good as her word and everybody is crowded around the long row of tables and chairs brought in from who knows where. They join hands together and Sam gives a blessing. It's short, nothing too solemn or poetic, but Dean can't help the stinging in his eyes as he looks around at the bowed heads, smells the curls of steam coming from the food, and feels Sam's solid grip on his hand.  
  
Sam is praying for them. He's saying stupid Sam things like _bless the food_ and _thanks for bringing everyone here_ and-- Sam is praying for them. For everyone there, like it's no big deal. And Dean swallows a few times because he is certain that God is hearing Sam's stupid prayer, hearing the prayer of the boy with the demon blood, listening to the boy with the gift that might never go away.  
  
And maybe, Dean thinks--maybe Sam listens to God, too.  
  
Sam murmurs amen next to him, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go, and then the spell is broken as everyone crowds around the table to find their places, jostling elbows and scraping back chairs. Sam can't stay still at his end of the table, gesturing wildly with his hands or passing the rolls after stealing one for himself or hopping up for cider and asking over the hubbub if anyone else wants more. Dean finds himself staring and only stops when Carol puts a wrinkled hand on his sleeve and nods to the food on his plate.  
  
"I wasn't sure if you liked cranberries but I put some on there for you anyhow."  
  
Dean blinks at his miraculously filled plate and then at Carol's gentle face. "Oh--yeah, thanks. That's great. Thanks."  
  
"I know you worry about him." She offers an understanding smile and shares a look with her husband. "Dale has to put up with me worrying about him the same way."  
  
"I always tell her I can choose my own vegetables." Dale shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. She puts them on my plate anyhow."  
  
"Oh, hush." Carol smiles fondly. "Anyways, I was going to say, your brother looks like he's doing well. He's eating better." She gives Sam a small wave and Sam's dimples are out in full force.  
  
"Yeah." Dean tries to clear the lump from his throat. "He's been...he's been doing good. Today's a good day."  
  
Carol smiles. "Looks like."  
  
She pats his hand again and Dean scoops up a forkful of mashed potatoes. Sam catches Dean's eye across the table and lifts his beer in salute. Dean grins back in response.  
  
So. Guess it was worth it, then.  
  
-  
  
After dinner, everyone finds somewhere to sit in the living room, dragging chairs to clump in groups or piling on the couch and around the tree, laughing and drinking coffee and cider, the occasional beer. It's late before anyone gets up and even then it's only to clear the table. Carol insists on packaging the food for the boys and whoever else wants it, and Abby starts the dishes, groaning whenever Dean enters with another load of plates.  
  
Sam is kept busy at the door, smiling and thanking everyone, helping to collect the right coats and hats. Dean pauses with a stack of plates outside the kitchen door, listening to the happy hum of conversation between Abby and Carol, a chorus of laughter from the few still in the living room.  
  
But mostly he listens to Sam.  
  
Nobody else can tell, probably, but Dean hears the scratch in Sam's voice that says he's tired. Sam's laughter is muted, eyes already dropping the way they seem to so easily these days. He's going to be wiped after this, probably won't even be able to get out of bed until Christmas. Dean can't say he regrets it, though. Sure, he'll be worrying his head off if Sam gets tangled in an episode he can't work his way out of, but he won't regret it. Not when it makes Sam so happy.  
  
A heavy step from behind him makes Dean turn. Sam smiles. "Got enough plates there?"  
  
Dean makes a face and shoulders his way into the kitchen, Sam behind him.  
  
"There you boys are," Carol greets them. "I was just telling Abby that you don't have stockings hung."  
  
"Are you kidding? I had to twist Dean's arm just to get him to put up the tree," Sam says, perching on a stool behind the counter.  
  
Carol's eyes sparkle conspiratorially. She leans in and whispers, "I'll see if I can't find something up in the attic for you boys."  
  
"I heard that," Dean says and Carol smacks his rear with a towel.  
  
"You were meant to."  
  
Abby picks up a foil-wrapped plate of muffins. "All right, you guys. I'd better head out."  
  
Dean lifts a hand and Sam says, "As soon as you're done with that extra credit essay, send it over."  
  
"Will do!"  
  
Carol pokes Dean in the side once the front door closes. "You could do worse."  
  
Dean makes an incredulous face. "Sammy has dibs on this one."  
  
"Oh really?" Carol turns her attention to Sam, who ducks his head.  
  
"I hate to say it but we really are just friends," Sam says. "And we're staying that way."  
  
"I don't see why you shouldn't date her," Carol says. "She's smart, pretty. She likes you, that's plain enough."  
  
"Yeah, well. Relationships tend to not end well with me." Sam fidgets a little on his stool. "I had a girlfriend. Jess. She died not long after we started dating and... I don't know, I think she was it for me."  
  
"Oh, sweetheart." Carol puts a sympathetic hand on his knee. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"She, uh, she was crazy about the holidays." A fond smile crosses Sam's face. "Every chance she could celebrate something she did, but Christmas was always her favorite. The last year we were together I told her to go have Christmas with her family. I'm glad she went and I'm glad her family got to have that time with her, of course, but...holidays bring up more memories than most, y'know? Sometimes I wish I had those memories with her too. I don't know, I guess--if someone was going to be gone soon, I think spending that time with them, making those memories, would make it easier. After."  
  
Carol's watching Sam, looking at him like she's seeing something completely different. "I understand," she says, and she only looks away when Sam nods a little. "Well." She picks up two foil-wrapped plates and when she smiles her eyes are clear. "I'm off, boys. Dale is in the living room?"  
  
"I think he's snoring on the couch," Sam says.  
  
"That's my charming husband," she says but there's no bite to her voice. "I'd better get him to his own bed or he'll stay all night. Keep an eye out for the stockings, Sam!" she calls through the swinging door. "I'll leave them on the step if you're not home."  
  
Sam stands to say his last goodbyes and Dean blocks his path, not backing down at Sam's confused, "What?"  
  
"You know what," Dean says in a low voice. "All that crap you were feeding Carol about making memories and moving on."  
  
Sam frowns. "That wasn't crap, I meant it."  
  
"Yeah, I'll bet. So what am I supposed to do with it? Huh, Sam? You want me to slap a smile on my face and make memories with you to last me through the winter?"  
  
A muscle clenches in Sam's jaw. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."  
  
"Oh, sure, try pulling that one on me. You look me in the face and tell me that you were talking about you and Jessica back there and _only_ you and Jessica."  
  
Sam fixes Dean with a look. "Fine," he snaps. "I wasn't talking about me and Jess. I was talking about Carol and Dale."  
  
Dean's mouth drops and Sam shoulders past him.  
  
-  
  
There's a pile of bulging black trash bags by the door when they finish cleaning up. The living room furniture is still pushed against the walls, the folding chairs they borrowed from the church stacked in the hall by the front door. There's a heap of towels on the floor where someone spilled their cider and napkins are littered around the room. Sam is stretched across the couch, his forearm resting over his eyes, when Dean turns off the lights in the kitchen.  
  
"I thought you already fought off Dale's reaper."  
  
Sam doesn't move but Dean can tell by the tension in his body that he's not asleep.  
  
"I bought him a few weeks," Sam says. His voice is thin like a thread. "Bought him some time."  
  
Dean scrapes his fingernails through his hair and folds into one of the armchairs dragged behind the swinging door leading to the kitchen. "You had a vision," he says, half question. Sam shifts a little on the couch and Dean sighs. "You had a vision," he repeats to himself. He leans forward, fists held to his forehead. "How long does he have?" he asks.  
  
Sam's voice is muffled. "A few weeks."  
  
It's a minute before Dean asks, "How long do you have?"  
  
Sam doesn't answer.  
  
-  
  
Dean's waiting for Sam's episode that night. He lies in his bed, looking up at the ceiling, listening to Sam's slow breaths, and waits. He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows he's opening his eyes and Sam's gone. He pounds down the stairs, calling for Sam, but the front door is closed this time.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
He runs back upstairs and grabs the flashlight from their room, then makes a quick tour of the house. All the doors are locked--except one. The back door is open, revealing heavy footprints appearing in the snow.  
  
"Sam!"  
  
Dean swears and follows the footprints from their house to the fields, cursing again when he loses the trail. He sweeps the flashlight's beam over the white expanse, stomach clenching at the sight of the dark woods bordering them. Sam's never made it that far, never even tried to go past the corner that he claims used to be a burial ground, but that doesn't mean that he couldn't. Dean swivels, cursing under his breath. The light snags on a dark huddle twenty yards from the house and Dean runs.  
  
When he reaches his brother, Sam is curled forward, shivering violently.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey. Sam." Dean crashes to his knees in the snow and grabs Sam's chin, pressing his thumbs to the waxy skin over Sam's cheekbones. Sam jerks in his hold and Dean shuffles forward, ignoring the snow seeping through the worn cotton of his sweatpants.  
  
"Stop," Sam whispers, his lips blue. "Just stop."  
  
"Sammy, listen to me. It's just an episode, it's not real, c'mon."  
  
He reaches around Sam's back to help him up and Sam panics. He shoots out an arm and topples Dean, staggering five steps before he's tackled from behind, knocked facedown in the snow. For all Sam's apparent weakness, he's like wildcat once he's down, fighting like a cornered animal. He scrabbles forward, leaving furrows in the snow, and Dean lunges, pressing his weight down and shoving his hands underneath Sam to hug his brother to his chest.  
  
"Sammy! Sam, stop it! Calm down, you're making it worse. Listen to me, it's not real."  
  
Sam doesn't listen, though. A whine slithers from his throat and he bucks, legs shifting for purchase. Somehow he gets to his hands and knees, and Dean hooks a foot around Sam's calf and straightens his leg, pitching Sam into the snow again.  
  
"Dean, let me go," Sam says.  
  
"You done acting like a child?" Dean demands. He feels Sam try to gather himself again and lets his weight go slack. Sam collapses in the snow weakly.  
  
"Dean. Please, Dean, this one thing. Listen to me, I'm not... Just let _go_."  
  
"No," Dean says firmly. "Not happening, Sammy."  
  
He waits until Sam stills, back heaving as he draws in shuddering breaths, then relaxes his hold. As soon as Dean does, Sam rolls, clawing at Dean and squirming out from under him. An elbow catches Dean in the sternum and he falls to the side with a grunt, still holding Sam who seems to have forgotten everything John taught them about combat. His fist catches Dean across the mouth and Dean tastes blood slick against his teeth.  
  
"Hey! Hey!"  
  
He straddles Sam, grabbing roughly at his brother's wrists and crushing them to his chest, wrapping Sam in his arms like a vice. His fingers bunch in Sam's jacket, Sam's boots bruising his legs, and Dean freezes, his grip loosening. Sam's not having an episode at all, he realizes. It's just Sam.  
  
Sam butts his forehead against Dean's chest once, twice, before leaving it there, sobs rattling his chest. Dean can't make out the muffled words but the broken sounds his brother is making are enough.  
  
"Sammy," he says gently, gripping Sam's nape and smoothing his thumb into the hair behind Sam's ear. "What's going on, huh? What are you doing out here?"  
  
Sam shudders, rubbing his face into Dean's wet shirt.  
  
"Hey, you with me? You gotta talk to me, I can't hear you, man."  
  
Sam shakes his head, clumps of snow melting in his hair. His teeth are chattering so hard he can barely get the words out. "I m-made my choice. I made it."  
  
Dean rocks them, the same agitated motion he used when Sam was a baby. "I know. I know."  
  
"This thing, it's-- I can't-- I _can't_."  
  
"I'm trying to help you, Sam. I am, you just gotta show me how. I swear I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. I'm not."  
  
Sam shifts, pulling away, and Dean tightens his grip until he catches a glimpse of Sam's face--calmer, resigned. "I know," Sam says. "I know you won't." He takes a breath and drags a sleeve under his raw nose.  
  
"All right. You okay now?" At Sam's nod, Dean gets a shoulder under Sam's arm and levers him up with a grunt. "There you go. You're good. Now can we go back to the house before I lose something vital to frostbite?"  
  
Sam gives a wet laugh and leans against Dean as they head back to the house. "Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."  
  
-  
  
Dean keeps a close eye on Sam the next day, ready at any minute for the stress from the party to catch up to Sam and drag him back into one of the colds that he seems to catch so easily. But Sam seems fine. He sleeps late the next morning, then snags the truck keys and says he'll be back in a couple hours. When Dean asks where he's going, he wags his eyebrows and says, "Christmas presents," in a mysterious voice, then closes the front door behind him, ringing the doorbell obnoxiously until Dean yells at him to just go already. He's back by two, tosses the truck keys at Dean. Dean finds him passed out on his bed a few minutes later. He snaps a blanket out over Sam's body, then drags the quilt from his own bed to cover Sam's feet.  
  
"Sure," he says quietly. "You're fine."  
  
They bundle up that evening for a quick trip to the diner--miraculously open on Christmas Eve--where Beth brings Sam soup without him asking and puts extra bacon on Dean's burger. It's something they'll miss when they get back on the road, Dean thinks--being known like that.  
  
Sam rips open a packet of crackers and crumbles them in his soup, looking up and catching Dean watching him. "Want one?"  
  
Dean shakes his head, biting into his burger. "I was just thinking. You're doing better. With the whole...seeing things...thing."  
  
Sam's hitches a shoulder. "I don't know that it's better. I think maybe I've just gotten used to it. Honestly, I don't even notice it anymore. It's easy to forget sometimes."  
  
"Forget what?"  
  
Sam taps his spoon against the bowl, a barely noticeable _chink_ amid the sounds of other people. "What it was like to not see things like this," he says. He casts his eyes around the room, runs a fingernail across the formica tabletop. "I forget. This isn't what everyone sees."  
  
Dean's swallows and sets down his burger. "We'll figure it out, Sam. We'll get you back to normal."  
  
The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "I don't think that's what I want anymore." At Dean's look, he continues, "The rest of it, yeah, that'd be great. But seeing things the way I do--it's like seeing through a window into a world no one else knows about. Having a flashlight," he shakes his head, his smile growing, "in a dark room. I understand. Some things, I understand."  
  
"What is it you understand? Huh?"  
  
"I can't tell you," Sam says regretfully. "I wish I could but I can't."  
  
"Try," Dean says shortly.  
  
Sam tilts his head, looking at Dean. "Okay," he finally says. "But not today."  
  
-  
  
The bell rings over the door of the diner as they leave. Sam looks up at it and barks a laugh, breath steaming in the air. His hands are dug deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. His jacket is zipped up all the way but Dean can still tell he's thin, the way he used to be when he was sixteen and growing like a weed, all his carefully packed-on muscle fading away.  
  
"We going home?" Sam asks.  
  
Dean watches Sam pull his beanie down over his hair. "Where else would we go?"  
  
"I don't know." A few snowflakes are making their lazy way down from the night sky and Sam cups one in his palm. It melts almost instantly. "I don't think I'm ready to go home yet."  
  
Dean jingles the keys thoughtfully, then jerks his head to the truck. "C'mon."  
  
Sam follows readily enough, raising an eyebrow when Dean pulls onto the road, his speed well below the limit. He turns off the main street into a neighborhood and watches Sam's expression as they stop in front of the first brightly lit house. Sam's mouth quirks as he takes in the candy-cane-lined walk, the plastic reindeer in the yard.  
  
"Thought we could drive around a little, check out the lights like Dad did when we were kids. You remember that?" Dean asks, idling in front of the next house, one with twinkle lights edging its eaves. Sam nods. He's tucked himself into the corner of the cab, dark hair spread across the window. Dean bumps up the heat and turns the vents toward Sam, then pulls ahead to the next house.  
  
They're on the fourth house when Sam says, "We used to argue about which lights were better."  
  
"Regular or colored." A smile crosses Dean's face at the memory. "You liked the white ones."  
  
"They all fit in." Sam's voice is thick and sleep-hazed. His breath fogs the glass, and through the window the lights are blurred, indistinct smudges haloed around his head. His eyes are open, though, watching Dean in the dim, so Dean keeps driving. He drives through cozy neighborhoods of what look like gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar, humming under his breath until Sam falls asleep. Until, one by one, the houses dim and there's nothing but him and his brother and snow falling like feathers from the sky.  
  
-  
  
Christmas dawns bright and early and, thank God, neither of the Winchesters are awake to see it. When Dean opens his eyes the clock on their nightstand says 10:23 and Sam is still snoring in the other bed. He considers going downstairs for snow to hold to the soles of Sam's feet but decides it's too much effort and rolls over to sleep for another hour.  
  
When he wakes up the second time, Sam's bed is empty, the sheets rumpled, and the smell of coffee wafts up the stairs. Dean pulls on a sweatshirt and socks and follows. Sam's in his pajamas on the couch, half reading the newspaper, half watching the TV.  
  
"Coffee?" Dean grunts.  
  
"Kitchen," Sam replies, voice raspy.  
  
Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and sits on the couch with a groan. Sam wordlessly holds out the plate of cookies.  
  
"Dude, did you actually put out cookies last night?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs around the cookie in his mouth and Dean swipes two from the plate. "What are we watching?"  
  
" _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer._ "  
  
Dean grunts, then shifts around so he can nudge Sam with his foot. "Hey."  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"Isn't this the part where we do presents or something?"  
  
A slow grin spreads over Sam's face. "I thought you weren't into this whole Christmas thing."  
  
Dean looks away. "Sue me."  
  
"No, no, you're right. Present time. Let me go get it." Sam jogs up the stairs and Dean goes into the kitchen for more coffee.  
  
When he comes back in, Sam has plugged in the tree lights and is sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, a red and green striped package with an obnoxious gold bow resting in front of him.  
  
He smiles broadly when Dean eases himself to the ground next to him. "Open it."  
  
Dean eyes it warily. "Are you sure it's safe?"  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Just open it."  
  
The wrapping crinkles and crunches like none of the newspaper or paper bags they've wrapped presents in before.  
  
"It's a car kit," Sam explains once he pushes away the last of the wrapping paper. "For the Impala. Rick helped me put together a few things to get her in shape for spring."  
  
"Wow." Dean passes a hand over the cloths and bottles of sealant. "This is great, man."  
  
"Yeah?" Sam says, grinning. "Good."  
  
Dean sets aside the kit and scoots his present over to Sam. "It's not much, but... Well, you'll get it."  
  
Sam deftly opens the wrapping and lifts an eyebrow. "A box of razors?"  
  
"In the box."  
  
Sam picks at the tape covering the lid, then slides out a white iPod with a laugh. "No way."  
  
"You remember that?"  
  
"I thought you trashed this."  
  
"Thought about it. Figured you'd cry too much if I did, though, so I kept it, added a few new songs to it. As soon as we get the Impala back on the road, I solemnly swear to give you one day of picking the music."  
  
"One day a week," Sam counters.  
  
"You can't bargain with Christmas gifts."  
  
"One day a week."  
  
"Sam."  
  
"One--"  
  
"Okay, fine!" Dean grumbles. "One day a week you get to pick the music."  
  
Sam's grin lights up the room.  
  
-  
  
The rest of the day is spent sleeping, eating the leftovers of the Christmas party, and attempting to sled on the small slope at the end of their street built up from all the shoveled snow. They eat dinner at the Finleys, stuffing themselves with peanut brittle and fudge, then play Rummikub until the moon is high over the snow and Dale is nodding off in his chair. Then Sam nudges Dean and they say their goodbyes, trudging back through the snow where Dean falls asleep on the couch, Sam clicking away on the laptop in the armchair by the tree.  
  
Dean jerks awake an hour later, hands flying out on either side of him, disoriented until he remembers why he's downstairs on the couch instead of in his bed. Groaning, he blinks at his watch until it comes into focus. 11:13. A quick glance around the room reveals no Sam but the laptop is open on the kitchen counter which means he's probably not far.  
  
Dean eases off the couch, dragging the blanket with him, and settles on his back near the tree, close enough to look up through its branches. The house is dark but for this pyramid of lights and ornaments, harmless things with no reason for existing but to make his brother happy. He snorts at the toy drums depicting the Twelve Days of Christmas, but his mouth quirks in a smile when he sees the tiny Matchbox Impala that Sam tied a ribbon around and hung on a drooping bough. There's a long string of popcorn winding like a highway across the branches, weaving through the shining red and gold balls, and if Dean squints his eyes, it looks like the Impala's moving along it. The whole thing is kind of majestic, he reflects, even with the candy canes hooked on the end of just about every branch.  
  
"I like to do that too."  
  
Sam's deep rumble comes from somewhere near his shins and Dean lifts his head to find Sam holding a blanket around his shoulders, feet bare on the wood floor.  
  
"Go put some socks on," he says but Sam ignores him in favor of folding to the ground next to Dean's hip, eyes fixed on the tree.  
  
"Should've put an angel on top."  
  
Dean snorts. "Like we need anything else angelic around here."  
  
Sam grins, bumping his knee against Dean's side. "Want more eggnog?"  
  
Dean blows out a slow breath. "Not unless you want me to start drooling on the couch again."  
  
Sam laughs. The logs on the fire shift, reduced to embers and blackened hollows, sending up a shower of sparks. Dean nudges Sam's foot for his attention, then says, "You got your Christmas."  
  
"Yeah, I did."  
  
Dean returns his gaze to the tree, listening to Sam breathe, slowly measuring his own breaths until they're breathing in unison. _Now's the time_ , a small voice in the back of his head presses. _Now's the time for last words._ But Dean doesn't have any. Instead he sits up and fists his hand in the back of Sam's shirt, wrist pressed against the back of Sam's neck. He feels the warm skin there and he doesn't say anything.  
  
Sam's mouth lifts, and he nods a little to himself. Then he says, "Come on," and tugs Dean to his feet.  
  
"Where are we going?" Dean asks, but Sam doesn't answer. So Dean follows like he's always done, trailing his brother to the front door with Sam's fingers curled in his sleeve.  
  
They stand in the snow out by the maple tree, and Sam says, "I have one more present for you," and fits his palm over Dean's eyes. Dean's world is narrowed down to darkness, the press of Sam's hand against his face, and the sound of their breathing muffled by falling snow. Sam's hand tightens briefly and Dean catches a quick flash of something before Sam's breath catches. Then Sam's hand is pressing on him harder and Dean feels the tremble of Sam's muscles through his arm.  
  
"Sam, what are you doing?" he asks, trying to push Sam's hand away. It drags down his face to cup his ear but at least he can see Sam--whose face is lined with pain. "Sam, stop."  
  
Sam's eyes are screwed shut, his thumb digging into the hair at Dean's temple. Dean makes to pull away but Sam grits out, "No, wait," and then--  
  
Dean's world is lit.  
  
The night is just as dark as before but streaks of light trace over everything. Sam is glowing; Dean lifts his hand and he's glowing too.  
  
"Can you see?" Sam gasps.  
  
Dean has to swallow before he can answer. "Yeah. Yes."  
  
Sam huffs a laugh and his breath hits Dean's face like a cloud. He can feel the pulse in Sam's wrist, his own blood moving through his veins, nerves zinging up and down his spine. Their footprints leading from the house are filled with what look like fireflies. He can see the designs in the falling snow, every snowflake a name of affection, a promise, a touch, accumulating in drifts with answers too many for the questions of the world. All the questions he's wanted to ask, all the times that he raged for answers when Sam was sick, when Sam didn't recognize him, when Sam's mind was gone, taken by the gift embedding itself in his body.  
  
But now that he's faced with the answers, he can't ask the first question that comes to mind. Instead, he asks the second.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I can't... I can show you. I told you I'd show you," Sam says. Dean can feel Sam looking at him, sense his warm presence in a way he never could before, but he can't look back quite yet. "See," Sam says.  
  
So Dean does. He breathes and looks, takes in the snow-covered pines, the stories inscribed on the wood of their house, the truth behind the scars his own skin holds. He could strip down tastes to their elements if he tried, he knows. He can separate the sharp scent of pine, the heavy smell of burning wood, the bright snap of snow. He could pick the stars apart, look up at them and see forever, see their depths and their surfaces, their moons and paths. He understands, he _knows_ in a way he never could before, in a way that no human could understand. It's too big, too much, but he can't help trying to absorb it all, grasping at it and pulling the knowledge closer. He wants more, he wants--  
  
He turns to look at Sam and a palm closes over his eyes.  
  
"No," Sam's hoarse voice says. "You can't. Not at me."  
  
Sam's fingers tighten on his face briefly, then he moves his palm.  
  
The world is flat, featureless. Dean blinks swiftly, surprised at the tears on his cheeks. Sam looks drained, exhausted, his face white but his eyes clear. He leans forward, hands on his knees, as if catching his breath.  
  
"Wanted you to see," he pants.  
  
"I didn't get to ask..." Dean's eyes flick back over the moonlit landscape, desperately searching. His ears are ringing, like he could hear before and now there's only silence. "My first question. I want to know why."  
  
"I know." Sam's eyebrows knit as he straightens. "You can't."  
  
The answer doesn't hurt like Dean thinks it should. "I know," he says, surprising himself. "I mean... I don't have to know. I understand."  
  
They retrace their steps slowly, the world dark in a way that Dean's never known. He can't help pressing his hand to the door before going in, but nothing happens and he steps inside, stopping when Sam says, "Wait."  
  
Slowly, he turns and faces Sam on the threshold, the brink between two places, and Sam reaches out and places his hands on either side of Dean's face, his thumbs lightly touching Dean's eyelids until they flutter closed. A moment later he feels the dry press of Sam's lips on his forehead, a soft, "Merry Christmas," whispered over his skin, and then the warmth is gone, Sam crossing the threshold and leaving Dean in his wake. He stands at the door a minute more, his eyes still shut.  
  
It felt like a benediction. It felt like goodbye.  
  
-  
  
New Years is spent with Sam asleep on the couch. The ball drops in New York on the TV and Dean watches from the kitchen doorway. He'd gotten up to get a beer, keeping an ear cocked to the TV to wake Sam up for the big event, but in the end he spends the turn of the new year watching Sam sleep, watching the rise and fall of Sam's ribs, staring as if he can look deep enough to see his bones and the sigils carved on them that, in the end, didn't keep Sam safe after all.  
  
He takes out the trash, bottles clinking softly as he tips them into the bin by the garage. When he gets back in, Sam's awake, eyes puffy like he hasn't slept in days. He's sitting by the window, attention fixed on the Christmas lights shining through.  
  
"You wanna leave 'em up?" Dean offers. "We could, y'know. Be those people who leave their Christmas lights up all year, never take 'em down."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "It's not the same." He sits in silence for a little while longer. "I hate to see it go. Christmas. It's like it's gone before you even get to know it."  
  
Dean's stomach clenches. He shoulders his way between Sam and the window, pulling Sam's eyes to him. "I know you." He crouches in front of Sam, pulling him in by the front of his shirt. "Sam. I know you. And you're not going anywhere."  
  
The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up in a sad, twisted smile. "Yeah, I am. The only thing we don't know is when."  
  
"When you're eighty," Dean says firmly. "Not before then and not without me."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "I can't do that."  
  
Dean shrugs as if he doesn't care but his voice is like iron. "It's not your call to make. I mean, come on. We don't just die. We don't just go out like the rest of the world, not after what we've been through. And when we die, I want us to choose to die, dammit. I want us to pick a day and let go, walk into the light and all that crap, and I want it to be _our choice_."  
  
Sam's fingers close over Dean's wrist. "That's not how death works."  
  
"That's how it should work."  
  
"Dean," Sam pinches Dean's bones together, "we don't go together."  
  
"Says who?"  
  
"Whatever happens, you don't get to follow me, Dean. You can quit the life, you can keep hunting if that's what you want, but you do not get to follow me."  
  
"Little brothers don't call the shots."  
  
"This time they do."  
  
Dean twists his fingers tighter in Sam's shirt, his voice low and cracked. "If you don't want me to follow you, then you'd better stay alive."  
  
Sam's mouth lifts. "I'm trying."  
  
"I know, Sammy." He curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Sam's head and lets Sam press his forehead into his shoulder. "I know."  
  
-  
  
Dean calls Bobby a few days later.  
  
"I think you need to come. Sam's not going to make it much longer."  
  
Echoing silence meets his statement, stretching so long that Dean thinks the call was disconnected, then Bobby says, "All right," in a thick voice. "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can."  
  
"Are you coming from Sioux Falls?"  
  
"I wish I was," Bobby says, "but I'm clear across the country. Carlin, Nevada. It'll take me a few days."  
  
"Make it less."  
  
-  
  
Midnight is good for making deals. It's another threshold, another doorway between what was and what will be, and that's when Dean tells Castiel to come.  
  
-  
  
He waits until Sam's asleep, then gets up and pads his way downstairs, past the Christmas tree, through the front door hung with one of Sam's bells, and out into the yard. The moon is bright on the snow, but even the memory of Sam's gift, of being able to see what Sam sees, dims it.  
  
Dean squares his shoulders and lets out a breath. "Cas."  
  
The angel blinks into being in front of him, wings limned with light for a moment.  
  
"That something new?" Dean raises a hand to where Castiel's wings had been and the angel's eyebrows lift.  
  
"Sam showed you."  
  
"Yeah, he showed me all right. By the way, nice of you to actually show up. I'd almost forgotten what it was like."  
  
"You expect me to have answers," Castiel says. "I thought it would be easier that you don't see me than to see me and expect me to act when there's nothing I can do to help."  
  
"There is something you can do to help."  
  
"Dean--"  
  
"I want to deal for Sam," Dean says. "Whatever it is Heaven wants, we can work it out. They want a supernatural warrior, that can be arranged."  
  
"This is exactly what your brother doesn't want," Castiel says.  
  
"Sam is barely running on his own steam right now. He's had a damn reaper shadowing him for weeks," Dean growls. "He's not exactly up for making big decisions."  
  
"I think Sam is making more decisions than you think." At Dean's look, Castiel squares his shoulders. "Arrangements have already been made between me and Sam. There's nothing else to be done."  
  
Dean's head rears back at the firmness in Castiel's tone. "You really are just going to let him die."  
  
"I'm doing what he asked," Castiel says. "I believe that's customary--granting a last wish," and then his wings spread and he's gone.  
  
-  
  
Dean goes back to work on January 6th for the first time in almost a month. He calls the house on his lunch break and Sam picks up, sounding fine, telling him about his morning: cereal for breakfast, a call to Bobby, replacing the porch light. Nothing to worry about. All's well. The rest of the day passes quickly.  
  
His phone buzzes when he leaves the garage that evening. He pulls it out as he gets in the truck. _Abby C._ shows up on the screen and Dean flips it open.  
  
"Is Sam with you?" Abby asks.  
  
Dean's hand tightens on the phone. "No, why?"  
  
"We were going to hang out tonight, but he just texted me and said there was something important he had to do and he wasn't going to make it. Is everything okay?"  
  
"Damn it, Sam," Dean mutters.  
  
"Dean," Abby repeats, worry in her tone. "Is everything okay? Where is he? Do you know what he's doing?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "I think I do."  
  
"Do you need help finding him?"  
  
"No. I know where he is."  
  
"Call me when you find him," Abby says.  
  
"I will," Dean promises, and hangs up.  
  
He sits in the truck a few minutes, his phone held loosely in his hand. Then he leans forward and starts the engine.  
  
A light snow starts to fall, a thin layer of delicate flakes dotting his windshield, floating past as he pulls out of the parking lot. He rolls down his window and holds out a hand, the cold air threading them through his fingers like lace. Later, he remembers every inch of that drive, every detail crystal clear, like he's watching himself pull the truck into their driveway, get out, stand in the silence. The Christmas lights are lit, red and green and gold glowing on the blue-shadowed snow. He doesn't search the house.  
  
Instead he goes out to the wide space behind the house, snow crunching under his boots, where he picks up Sam's footprints and follows them to the back field until, halfway to the pines, they disappear. Slowly, he places his feet in the last set of footprints and tilts his head back to the dark sky. Snowflakes catch in his eyelashes, dropping on his nose and cheeks like kisses. He breathes deep and then opens his eyes to watch the last flakes of snow fall from the sky. The snow is gone.  
  
And so is Sam.


	10. Author's Notes

First off, I'd like to thank [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[**geckoholic**](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) who was generous enough to make such lovely art and who put up with me pushing back the posting date over and over (and over).  
  
I also owe thanks to [](http://jacyevans.livejournal.com/profile)[**jacyevans**](http://jacyevans.livejournal.com/) for beta-ing this monster at the eleventh hour, making me laugh out loud with her comments, and always encouraging me to move forward.  
  
Lastly, thank you to [](http://mimblexwimble.livejournal.com/profile)[**mimblexwimble**](http://mimblexwimble.livejournal.com/), who took a crack at this story last summer, when it was just starting to _be_ a story, and threw a ton of ideas at me until some of them stuck.  
  
What you just read was a story that took three very different forms over the two years it was being written. It started out as a collection of scenes, each one based on a track from Enya's _And Winter Came_ album (which you can listen to [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGBs3CJ9Wio&feature=share&list=PLssMh4pLkYBDlHbS7lFsBGbnqfZjIoV-V)). Some of those scenes made it into the final version of the story: Sam wandering in the snow at night, the tree lot, the party, and of course, Christmas Day. In its first form, this was supposed to be a story with Christmas at its center. In the end, it grew to be more than that, but not different, I think.  
  
The end was always going to be tragic for Sam. I tried to give as many hints as I could, but if you're still wondering, Sam doesn't die at the end. He waits until he can't hold out any longer and finally gives in to the powers. It's horrible, yes, because Sam chooses to face his worst fear so that Dean doesn't have to, but it also leaves Dean with some sort of purpose. So there's that. Please don't kill me.  
  
The title takes a bit more explanation. First off, some background. Epiphany comes from the Greek word _epiphaneia_ , which means "manifestation" or "appearance," generally used to mean the appearance of a deity to a human. The Christian church uses the word to specifically refer to the manifestation of God as a human being in the form of Jesus Christ, celebrated as a religious holiday on January 6th. The most common use of the word, though, refers to a sudden realization of great truth, an intuitive grasp of reality through something striking.  
  
This story is called _Epiphany_ because the word encompasses everything that Sam and Dean go through. Sam is faced with the manifestation of something divine in his own body. He and Dean are the humans watching the divine come down--and realizing they're unable to stop it. Sam's gift to Dean at the very end is understanding, comprehension, through wonder. He allows Dean a glimpse into the reality that humans live with every day without seeing. His gift, really, is an epiphany. It's mostly coincidence that Sam said yes to his powers on January 6th. I knew he had to go, but, sue me, I didn't want him to leave Dean on Christmas. So he left on the Feast of Epiphany. Tissues, anyone?  
  
Now to talk about me. Ahem.  
  
This is the longest story I've written. Ever. I think the huge sense of accomplishment that I'm _supposed_ to be feeling will settle in later. For now, just know that behind this wall of text is a girl who is freaking out about her character arcs and storyline, who worries about whether it's "hand wave" or "handwave," and who really, _really_ hopes you like what she's written.  
  
Because, ultimately, this story is for you.  
  
Merry Christmas.


End file.
